Londyn Bridge: The Abyss and Londyn Bridge: Refuge
by Ellynne
Summary: Pt. 1:The Abyss: Rumplestiltskin went with Bae to a Victorian world without magic-and without hope. All he wants now is a chance to save his son, but how much will it cost? Rumbelle as of chapter 4. Pt. 2: Refuge: The Beast is caged, and Bae mourns his father. When newcomers reach Londyn, will they help or will they destroy the only hope of escape?
1. The Abyss

I don't own Once Upon a Time.

**Note: **The place names are not spelling errors. This is not quite the same world as the one we know.

_The monster in its dark cave shifted in its chains. They thought they had killed it. They thought it was trapped and tamed. They were wrong._

_That was what it told itself when it could feel hope dying. They were wrong. A moment would come. They would be careless, the chains would be broken, and it would break free._

_When despair threatened to drown it, that was what it clung to. Here in the dark, that was what it whispered to itself, over and over: hold on, wait, the time will come._

_And, then, it would make them pay._

Rumplestiltskin woke, his heart pounding. It was always the same nightmare. Bae and he in the dark woods, the pit opening up in front of them, demonic lights reaching for them both as Bae screamed for him to keep their deal.

He had. Gods help him, he had.

This city, Londyn, was like a madman's tale. Seen from a distance, it glowed in the night. Lights shone through the fog like a sea of jewels. He'd seen homes that kings could envy as he stood outside, begging.

It was what he did when he couldn't find work, which was often enough. The mills, the ships at the docks, they all wanted able bodied men, not a shriveled cripple.

He looked around the small hole he and Bae called home, a cranny tucked into the maze-like alleys that, so far, no one else seemed to have discovered or wanted. If someone ever did challenge them for it . . . well, Rumplestiltskin couldn't fight for it.

Time to get up, he thought. He'd been told of a stable across town that might be hiring. He'd had a way with animals, once. He knew how to brush and curry a horse, and he could muck out a stable despite his leg. Perhaps, it would be enough.

He got up, reaching over for Bae to wake him.

But, the boy was gone.

Rumplestiltskin looked around in a panic. If there was one thing he'd learned in this world, it was how dangerous it was to a child alone. They'd had too many near brushes already.

There was a voice from outside. "Papa?" Bae whispered, coming in. "Papa, are you there?"

"Bae!" They kept quiet in their small hole, but Rumplestiltskin couldn't keep the relief out of his voice. "Where were you?"

"Down by the baker's," Bae said. But, he didn't meet his father's eyes as he went on. "They—their delivery boy was sick and—they needed someone. Quickly. So, I did it. The baker gave me these." Bae showed him two loaves of bread.

Rumplestiltskin stared at them. This was good bread, fresh-baked that morning. And his son was a terrible liar. Quietly, he asked, "What did you really do, Bae?"

"Papa—"

"Bae, tell me."

Bae looked away. "It doesn't matter, Papa. I'm all right. No one saw me."

"Bae—"

"I was careful, Papa. And you need this. You didn't eat yesterday. Or the day before."

It seemed Rumple wasn't a good liar, either. He'd thought Bae had believed his stories, that he hadn't been able to wait before wolfing his share down when he'd got some food for both of them, that what he handed the boy was only half of what he'd been able to scrape together.

This world was killing them, he thought, killing their souls along with their bodies. "I'm sorry, Bae. I never meant for this to happen."

"It's not your fault, Papa."

"Isn't it? It's my job to look after you, Bae. You know what they do to thieves, here." At best, Bae might be sent to the workhouse. He'd heard how children died there, starving on the paltry rations—even less than what they had now. Others were sold like slaves into "apprenticeships" no one else would take, even in this city of desperate souls. Like the sweeps' boys who too often fell to their deaths or suffocated in the chimneys they were sent to clean.

Or worse, Rumplestiltskin thought. He'd heard drunks looking at Bae comment on the "pretty boy"—and other men, cold sober and calculating. If the workhouse would sell a child to the sweeps, he didn't doubt they would sell his son to anyone else who offered them money.

But, at least, whether in the workhouse or sold in the city, Rumplestiltskin would have_ hope_ of finding his son again. If the boy were taken as a thief, he might be transported, even hung.

"I'm so sorry, son," he said. The words were so weak and inadequate. They were also all he had to offer.

Bae handed him a loaf. "Here, Papa. Please, eat. You're too weak."

Reluctantly, Rumplestiltskin took it from him. It was white bread, soft and sweet, with none of the taste of sawdust or mold, unlike the bread they usually managed to get, when they got any. He forced himself to eat slowly. Bae was right. It had been close to two days since his last meal.

They couldn't live like this, he thought. He had to find a solution. If he could just hold on till Bae was large enough to do a man's work in this world. Work at the docks, perhaps. Or even the mills—the work wasn't all bad, there. Not all of it.

Rumplestiltskin had heard how workers in the coal mines died of black lung, choking on the years of dust they'd breathed in. But, even that might be a better fate than what waited for them here in the city. A miner might live for years, have a home, a family, have a full stomach and a warm bed waiting for him at the end of the day. He might be a grandfather before lung sickness found him. He might be one of the ones who never had it at all.

But, that was a man's life, not a child's. There were mines where they hired children, tying them carts and making them drag them like mules, beating them if they were too slow or if, gods save them, they fell down from exhaustion. Those children weren't expected to live long enough to get black lung.

For the rest, there had been a weavers' guild years back, but the mills had killed it. There were shepherds to the north and west on what had once been farmland. Most of the families who had lived there had been forced away, their homes burned or torn down if they refused to go. The landowners had had their pick of able-bodied survivors to watch their flocks. The two trades Rumplestiltskin had been trained to were useless.

He _could_ read and write—and he had been given a few pennies, now and then, by those who couldn't to write a letter or explain an agreement. But those were rare times. A ragged beggar wasn't someone you trusted with your messages, even if he only asked for a farthing. And the skill wasn't so very rare in these lands, even among the poor.

He ate the stolen bread slowly, praying to the gods, wondering if they could hear him in this world. Or if they cared. He had already sold his soul, hadn't he? He had killed a man. Or a demon—he still didn't know which Zoso was—and taken his powers. And his madness.

He had killed men under that curse. Slaughtered them for nothing, for letting his son scrape his knee in the street.

They had come here to escape the curse, to a land without magic where Rumplestiltskin was just a poor, crippled beggar.

_I should have taken the bean and left Bae behind, _he thought. _ I could have left him with gold and land and even some magic to protect him. He would have had a home and friends, people who cared what happened to him. _

_I should never have brought him here._

_Do you hear me, gods? _He asked the sky_. Bae wouldn't leave his father—and his father was selfish enough to bring him here with him._

_Please, destroy me if you want. You know I've earned it. But, help me save my son._


	2. Wendy

**Note:** I've been told my odd spellings for place names are confusing. So, to let you know, this takes place in an alternate universe version of Victorian London. Spellings and history are a bit different. Anything from any part of the 19th century may show up as needed. See the end for further details.

X

The stable hired him. It was only for the day, but they told him to come back tomorrow to see if they could use him. And they did. There was work and food for three days running.

And, then, there wasn't.

He had learned how to beg in this world. But, he was hardly alone. Others, unable to work, stood with their hands out, ready to run if the policemen saw them. If he was lucky, there would be a few pennies for food at the end of the day.

And he lied to his son. Over and over again, he lied to the boy.

"Here," he said that night, handing him a bit of bread and an apple with a single bite taken out of it. A well-dressed boy, out with his nanny, had taken a taste and declared it was too sour before throwing it away. Rumplestiltskin had snatched up the prize and made his escape before anyone else had even seen it. "Sorry, I took a bite of your apple. Mine wasn't enough." He tried to smile, even laugh.

Bae looked ready to weep. He tried to hand the apple back. "I can't, Papa."

For a moment, his lies and his humor deserted him. "You can, Bae," he said, pushing the apple back at him.

"Papa. . . ."

"Yes. I'm your father, Bae. I can't watch you starve."

He always made Bae eat the best of whatever he brought back. If there was enough for both of them, well and good. If not, he lied, saying he'd eaten. They quarreled, but Rumplestiltskin won. He was Bae's father. So far, that fraying, laughable authority (what kind of father was he?) still held.

Then, he woke one morning just as Bae, not as stealthy as he thought, snuck out of their small hole.

X

It wasn't the hunger, in the end, that drove Bae, it was the look in Papa's eyes. That was what made him eat when he could see Papa growing weaker. He looked at Bae with such terrible pain in his eyes.

And, that was what drove him out to find bread. He couldn't take seeing that pain any longer. He knew Papa didn't want him stealing, but there wasn't any choice.

He went to the better part of town, walking as though he knew what he was about. If anyone stopped to ask him, he had a message to deliver (and he did, a carefully written one folded up in his jacket, good enough to stop the suspicions of any policemen who might otherwise drive off a boy so clearly out of his proper place.

Before, when he'd done this, Bae had looked for a house with deliveries being made. He could grab loaves off the baker's truck while the man was bringing bread into the house or dash into the kitchen while the housekeeper had her back turned, grab what he could, and run.

Today, however, it was the front door that was left open. Swallowing his fear, Bae went up as if he knew exactly what he was doing and as if he had a perfect right to do it. He pretended to knock on the door, in case anyone (like a policeman) was watching, and went in.

The hallway was clear. If there were any servants, they were busy elsewhere. His nose told him where the breakfast had to be. He followed it (nervously reaching for his letter in case he was challenged) and went in.

Breakfast was laid out as a buffet on a table against the wall. There were all sorts of food. Delicious aromas—some he recognized, some he didn't—rose from covered platters with low burning flames set beneath to keep them warm. Close by were bowls of fruit and of pitchers of milk and juice. He saw a tea set nearby, all ready to be poured. But, at the end of the table, he saw what he'd come for, loaves of bread ready to be sliced and eaten.

Bae hurried to them. This was the dangerous part. Up till now, if anyone saw him, he could claim to be a messenger or errand boy. No one would believe that once they saw him making off with the bread. He grabbed the loaves, and—

"Stop!" a voice cried out behind him. Bae whirled and saw a girl holding a bronze statue as a weapon. "Who are you?" she demanded. "What do you want?"

Bae shrank back. It wasn't the statue—it was clear the girl had no idea how to fight—it was that he suddenly saw himself the way she must see him, as a thief, a coward who crept into other people's homes and took what he wanted. He dropped the bread back onto the tray.

"Please, I don't mean any harm. I was just. . . ." he trailed off, because what could he say?

But, the girl looked at the bread, and her expression changed. She put the statue down. "You're hungry," she said and picked up the bread tray, offering it to him, exactly as if he were an ordinary guest and she were his hostess. "Here. Take as much as you like."

Bae looked at the bread, then at her uncertainly. "Really?"

"Well, I'm not about to let you starve to death. What's your name?"

"Bae, Bae Weaver." One of the things Bae and his father had quickly learned in this world was the need for two names, not just one.

"Bae? How unusual." Somehow, she made it sound as though an unusual, odd sounding name were the luckiest thing a person could possess. "I'm Wendy, Wendy Beaton."

"Please," Bae said, looking at the bread. "I need to take it to my father. He's not well."

"A likely story."

Wendy started guiltily, almost dropping the tray. There was a tall man standing in the entryway. Despite his gray hair and beard, Bae had no doubt this man, unlike Wendy, knew how to fight and would catch Bae as easily as a fox going after a cornered chicken if he tried to run for it.

"It's true, Uncle Nathan," Wendy said with only a slight quaver in her voice. "This is a friend of mine, Bae Weaver. He used to run errands for my father. I saw him passing and invited him in."

"And you, girl, should know better than to tell lies for gutter rats. Sick father, indeed. What are you really doing boy? Trying to make off with the silver?"

"No, sir, I only—"

"We'll let the constable decide that, you little thief—"

With a small roar, the flames under the platters spurted up. The gray haired man froze.

"My son's no thief," Papa said.

Papa was standing behind the man, leaning heavily on his staff. He looked pale, and there was a cold sheen on his skin. He also looked ready to take on Wendy's uncle, all the police in Londin, and anyone else who tried to harm Bae.

"Mr. Weaver," Wendy said brightly. "It's good to see you, again. I don't know if you remember me? I'm Wendy Beaton, Dr. Beaton's daughter. I'm sorry. I saw Bae and asked him in. I—I didn't mean to cause trouble. Uncle Nathan, this is Mr. Weaver, Bae's father. Mr. Weaver, this is my uncle, Dr. Hastings."

Papa relaxed slightly. He didn't quite know what game Wendy was playing, but he could see she was an ally. "Dr. Hastings," he nodded politely. "A pleasure to meet you."

"Mr. Weaver," Dr. Hastings said, he glanced uneasily from the flames to Papa. "I . . . apologize. My niece has only lately come to live with me since my brother-in-law's death. I'm afraid I am still learning to deal with children." He sounded truly contrite.

Papa looked at the black mourning band the professor wore around his arm and at Wendy. Her clothes were all black, something Bae hadn't appreciated before. In this world, among people who could afford it, that meant a death in the family, a recent one. He saw Papa relax further. So did Bae. He had seen neighbors back home often enough dealing with deaths from the war. He knew the sudden bursts of anger grievers sometimes had.

"I understand," Papa said. "I'm sorry for your loss." Ordinary words, but Papa meant them. Rich or not, these people also knew what it meant to lose those they loved. Papa seemed like he was going to say something more, but he shook his head, looking suddenly confused. He was growing paler and breathing hard. He must have run after Bae nearly the whole way, the boy thought guiltily.

"You don't look well, sir," Dr. Hastings said. "Please, sit down."

"No," Papa said. "I—I'm fine, I—" He staggered, losing his grip on the staff. If Dr. Hastings hadn't steadied him, Bae thought Papa might have fainted then and there.

The doctor helped Papa into a chair. "Wendy, fetch me some tea. And brandy. And ring the bell for Smith and Hughes. And fetch Mrs. Hughes. I'll need her, too."

He turned to Baelfire. "Bae, was it? When was the last time your father ate?"

"I—I don't know," Bae admitted. "Not yesterday. Not the day before, I don't think."

The doctor's gaze turned cold and critical as he looked Bae over. "But, you have eaten in that time. Haven't you?"

"Leave . . . the boy . . . _alone,_" Papa said, some of the color coming back into his face. "You think I'd . . . let him . . . starve. . . ?"

The doctor frowned, but Wendy was hurrying back with a cup of tea, steam rising from it, and the brandy. The doctor put a large dollop of brandy in the teacup. He paused before handing it to Papa, however. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a small flask. Carefully, he poured out a small dose of red liquid. He stirred it, mixing in whatever he'd added, and handed it to Papa. "Drink this," he said brusquely.

Papa, pale and half-conscious, managed to drink down the tea. A little color came back into his face, but the cup almost fell from his hands as he finished it as he slumped forward.

"Papa?" Bae turned on the doctor. "What did you do to him?"

Dr. Hastings looked at him disdainfully. "Just tincture of poppies, boy, to help him sleep." Two men in the black suits of upper-class servants and a middle-aged woman Bae thought must be the housekeeper, came into the room. "Mrs. Hughes, have the servants fill a tub in the kitchen. This man will need to be scrubbed clean before we put him to bed—the blue room, I think. Fetch chrysanthemum powder as well, lots of it. I shouldn't be surprised if he has lice and fleas. The boy will need to be cleaned, as well. Hughes, get him to the back and see it taken care of. And give him as much milk to drink as he can hold down. Smith, can you find a night shirt for him? And clothes for the boy. See to it."

"I don't need—" Bae tried to protest.

"You most certainly do," Dr. Hastings said. "And, Smith? Get a comb, a good one. I'll leave it to you how to get those tangles out." He glanced at Bae's matted hair before turning back to his niece. "Don't just stand there, girl. Make yourself useful. Fetch my medical bag. And a large bowl." He looked at Papa as Hughes hoisted him up and helped him walk back to the kitchen. Bae was amazed Papa could put one foot in front of another. He didn't seem to be awake. "Mr. Weaver will need to be bled."

X

**Place Names:**

Londyn instead of London (taken from the Roman name, Londinium).

Skots and Skotland instead of Scots and Scotland.

Eireland and Eirish instead of Ireland and Irish (taken from Eire, another name for Ireland).

Waels and Waelsh instead of Wales and Welsh.


	3. Water, Fire, and Dreams

**Note: **I've been told the place name spellings have been confusing. The weird spellings are on purpose. This is an alternate universe version of Victorian London. See the bottom for further details on place names.

X

It would have humiliated his father, Bae thought, if he had been aware of what the people were doing to him. It humiliated Bae just to watch.

The doctor had given him brandy and tea, along with that medicine he had added to it. It had brought back some color to Papa's face even if the keen edge to his eyes began to dim. Still, he'd managed to swallow the first two mugs of milk the servants pressed on him.

The servants took them to the kitchen. Bae had barely noticed as a large, tin tub was filled with hot water, all his attention anxiously focused on Papa. The medicine had put him in a drugged sleep. Then came the part that would have humiliated his father. The servants, not bothering to hide their disgust at how filthy Papa was (_It's not his fault! _Bae wanted to yell at them. Where were they supposed to get wash water? Where were they supposed to _bathe?_), had stripped off his clothes more thoroughly than Bae would have plucked feathers off a chicken.

Then, before he could stop them, they threw his clothes into the fire.

"No! You can't—"

"Quiet, boy," Dr. Hastings said. "Those things were disease ridden. We'll get him new ones when the time comes."

But, it wasn't the clothes. Or not just the clothes. Except for the coat, they were all from their world. Papa's overtunic was long gone, of course, but the rest of his things had been passable in this world—or were once he had a coat over them.

Now, they were gone as if they'd never been.

The servants dumped Papa into to the tub. He didn't wake even when they scoured him like the bottom of a chicken coop that hadn't seen water in ten years.

And . . . Bae could see why. His father was skin and bones. Literally. He looked like thin cloth stretched tight over a skeleton. It was only a wonder he hadn't collapsed long before. Bae had _known _he was starving himself so Bae could eat. He had known how light Papa had become when he sometimes helped him back to their small shelter after a long day.

But, he _hadn't _known, not till now.

There was a bucketful of something that smelled of chemicals and chrysanthemums. They dumped it over Papa and kept scrubbing. "To kill any lice or fleas," the doctor said. He looked at Bae. "You'll go next."

"What?"

"A little bathing won't kill you, boy." Dr. Hastings looked at Papa and frowned. Then, he transferred his glare to Bae. "_He's_ nearly dead, but you're well fed. What were you thinking to let him get into such a state?"

"I didn't—!" Bae took a deep breath. It was the same accusation the doctor had made in the dining room. The only answer Bae had was the one Papa had made: his father wouldn't let Bae starve. "He gave me what he called my share and said he'd already eaten."

"And you believed him?"

"Yes—No—He's my _father_." Bae didn't know how to explain it, how it cut worse than any knife, the look in his father's eyes when he thought he'd failed Bae. How the warmth in them when he could give Bae anything, even a crust of bread, was worth more to Bae than all the food in the world. Admitting he knew his father was lying—_telling_ him he knew he was lying would have killed something in him more cruelly and more thoroughly than hunger ever could.

Bae didn't know how to say that, but some of it must have shown in his face. The doctor grumbled, "I see." His face remained cool and aloof, but Bae no longer saw the condemnation in his eyes.

The servants went on washing and rinsed Papa, then washed and rinsed him again. When they were done, they called the doctor over to inspect him. He made a special point of checking Papa's hair—looking for nits, Bae realized. Treating him like a slab of meat.

"All right," the doctor said. "Take him upstairs. The blue room."

One of the servants—Smith, Bae thought his name was—approached the doctor. "I've got everything ready for you there, sir."

"Very well. I'll be up directly," Dr. Hastings said. He spared another glance for Bae. "Get the boy clean. I'll check on him when I'm done."

Bae wanted to stay with Papa, but the servants were already pulling him back and refilling the washtub. It was his turn to get scrubbed.

X

_Rumplestiltskin had a strange dream._

_He knew it was a dream. The meadow he walked in was like but not like the meadows of home. The grass was too green, the flowers too perfect. There were no clouds in the sky, no midges swarming. The sunlight streaming down from the sky was neither too bright nor too warm. Even the sound of a gurgling brook somewhere back near the shadows of the trees was too musical and clear. _

_Yet . . . the music of the brook was dulled and distant. The smell of the flowers was muted. The feel of the ground beneath his feet was . . . dim, unreal. It felt like a memory, not something real, not something he was experiencing _now.

_He realized he wasn't wearing the clothes of his world, neither worn homespun or the better cloth he had worn since the curse. He wore clothes of his new world, good ones, well made and new. He looked around for something familiar, the road to his village or one of the landmarks near it, but it was no place he knew— despite the aching sense that he should._

_Then, he felt it, the darkness of his curse boiling to life inside him._

_Even in this new world, the curse hadn't vanished. He could feel it lurking inside him. But, it slept. It was like a shadow lying still and silent in a forest pool. Easy to pretend it was nothing more than any other shadow in the water, a darkness cast by the green leaves or the water's depths. It was like a serpent made sluggish by winter's chill. Even if it wasn't dead, he could pretend it was._

_Till now._

_It roared in his veins like fire. It burned through his mind, consuming his thoughts. It was a hungry beast that scented blood._

_That was when he heard the screaming._

_The screaming jarred him back into himself. His mind became his own again. The curse still swirled around him, but it was as if it had become two creatures. One was a black fire, separate from him. That one gorged itself on the fuel—no, the _meat_ it was being fed (images swirled in his mind, moist and hot and _red_). It was a dumb beast that knew nothing but hunger and the sating of it._

_The other was the curse as he knew it, a thing rooted inside him, tangled so tightly with his own mind and heart, he couldn't tell where one left off and the other began. It was ancient wisdom and twisted humor. It was all his hates and loves, his nightmares and dreams demanding action and denying all fears of who might be hurt in its way._

_It howled like a starving beast taunted with food and denied it._

_Food, he called it. But, he meant flesh and blood, hearts and souls, suffering and pain—No, he told himself, _**No.**_ He would not feed it. And he would not let it feed. For all that had happened in this world, that was the one thing that made it worthwhile. Even if he died here, the curse had no power. No one would die in this world because of it. _

_He took a deep breath, closing his mind to the hunger inside him and focused on the thing that fed. Dream or not, he would put a stop to it._

_He saw it. Not a shadow at all, he thought. It was the black color of blighted roots, wholesome plants changed to ruin. Or the black of wounds turning to rot, when a man's own flesh became poison, killing him._

"_Go," he told it and felt it respond. It stopped in its gorging (yes, he hadn't imagined that. Whatever was happening, the darkness _fed_. It hungered and starved inside him, and yet it fed). It seemed to turn and look at him, like a mute beast. It didn't understand, it growled at his command—but knew its master._

"_Go," he repeated, and the shadow vanished._

_A woman lay collapsed on the ground._

_He ran to her. She was no one he knew. A lady, he thought, by this world's reckoning. She had porcelain skin and hands that weren't reddened and callused with hard labor. She wore a dress of blue perfectly matching her eyes—terrified eyes, staring blankly at horrors he could only imagine (the darkness inside him laughed. Yes, horrors he _could_ imagine—all too easily)._

_He held her as if she were a child, trying to comfort her. He found himself singing her old lullabies he had sung to Bae as a child (he remembered Bae waking from nightmares after Milha was killed, crying for his mother, not able to understand why she wasn't there)._

"_I'm a king, and you're a lionheart, lionheart," he sang. _

_Her tremors began to ease. Slowly, she began to look at him with something like comprehension._

"_Who are you?" she asked. Her voice was only a weak whisper and hoarse, as if she had worn it out screaming. It didn't hide her accent. Musical but unfamiliar, it was not one of the ones he'd heard in the city._

"_Rumplestiltskin," he said, not even thinking before he gave her an honest answer. He knew it was a dream, because she simply nodded, accepting this. "Who are you?"_

_She frowned, as though he'd asked a difficult question, one she was almost too weary to find the answer to. "Rhosyn?" she said, as if she were trying on the answer. It must have fit, since she repeated it with more conviction. "Rhosyn."_

"_That—thing," he said, unwilling to name it. "Do you know what it was?"_

_She shuddered, her grip on his hands tightening. "It's different. They've called it before, but it was weak and . . . not so dark. It's been so long. I thought—I thought they couldn't call it anymore. I hoped it was gone."_

_The curse had been bound for a long time. Here, now, it was loose again._

_No, this was a dream, a nightmare. His curse had never been real in this world. So, this couldn't be real. Could it?_

"_Who calls it?" he asked. "Why?"_

"_I tried," she whispered. "I tried to fight it. Do the brave thing and bravery will follow . . . . When I look at it, I see. They give me blood to drink to make me see. . . ._

"_Rumplestiltskin." She leaned against him, her eyes closing. Her voice fell to the soft murmur. "They think they've seen you. But, they haven't. Don't let them. Not till it's too late. . . ."_

_In the odd way of dreams, it was only as she fell asleep that he noticed her hair. It was a tangle of fiery red curls, exactly like the seer Rumplestiltskin had met many years ago._

_He woke in a warm, well lit room, Bae sitting beside him. All memory of the dream vanished, leaving behind only a feeling of fear and unease._

X

It had been a few hours since Rumplestiltskin's collapse. He was in a guestroom. He'd never seen anything like it. The walls were covered with paper decorated with a pattern of vines and blue roses. The furniture was painted white with blue and gold edgings. A fire burned in the grate; and he was in a warm, soft, _clean _bed. Blankets and quilts were piled high on him. Soft pillows lay under his head. He was wearing a nightshirt made of fresh-washed linen.

As for Bae, he'd had months' worth of grime cleaned off him. His wavy hair was combed and, if not free of tangles, was unmatted for the first time since they came to this world. The clothes he wore were a bit big for him but not too badly fitted. They were a little worn yet (Rumplestiltskin looked them over with a weaver's professional eye) well-made and expensive, the clothes of a young gentleman. He gave Rumplestiltskin a mug of what had once been hot milk, now lukewarm, and slices of _buttered_ bread while telling him everything that had happened.

Hearing the story unfold, Rumplestiltskin knew he should feel grateful, even happy. It was what he'd prayed for and more.

Instead, he felt afraid.

A bad dream, he thought. It felt as if he'd woken from one and not yet shaken off its shadow. But, that's all it had been, a dream. He thought of the curse inside him. But, it lay as unmoving as stone, not alive and hungry. He turned his mind away from it, listening to Bae.

He stopped Bae in towards the end of his story. "They _bled_ me? Why?"

"_They give me blood to drink to make me see. . . ."_

"I don't know. The doctor said it would help. He said he wanted to examine it with something he called a . . . a microscope?"

Blood.

There were things Rumplestiltskin knew about magic. Blood was allied with air in sorcery, of invisible things taking form. It was the substance of courage, love, and hope.

Why would someone want to take blood?

But, the science of this world wasn't like the magic of his own. And blood was other things, even there. He remembered the injured being brought in from the battlefields. He remembered the _smell_ of the battlefields and the cries of the wounded as life drained away from them.

Yes, blood was many things.

Bae had pulled an odd, wide piece of embroidered cloth that went up to the ceiling, where it seemed to disappear into a hole in the plaster. "It's supposed to attach to a bell somewhere," Bae said doubtfully. "They said I should ring it when you woke up."

Only a minute or two later, the young girl Rumplestiltskin vaguely remembered seeing before—he'd assumed she was the doctor's daughter—no, wait, hadn't she said he was her uncle? She entered with a tray.

"I intercepted Martha on her way here," the girl said, smiling as though this was rather clever of her (Martha, he was to learn later, was one of the maids). "Are you feeling better, Mr. Weaver?"

Mister. Rumplestiltskin did not fully understand the titles used in this land but he knew "mister" wasn't something a rich man's daughter used for homeless beggars. "I'm hardly a 'mister,'" he told her.

"Oh?" she put the tray down across his lap. It had little, metal stands along the side to keep it up without depending on him not to tip it over when he moved. She lifted the lid off a bowl, revealing a creamy soup. The smell made his mouth water. There was more bread and butter, and the young lady poured him a cup of tea. "I know it's rude to contradict a guest, but what else I should I call you? Do you like sugar with your tea? It's just chamomile, I'm afraid. A bit drab, but good for the digestion. Oh, dear, should I be mentioning digestion? I'm never sure. Father talked about things like that a great deal, but Father also made Lady Pickforth turn green at a garden party with some observations about ducks. Do you take cream? Father helped run the hospital, you know. He kept careful records about what seemed to best help people who had been, er, distressed in matters of food. Milk seemed to be one of the best things, if it had been properly heated. Do try the soup. It's quite good, despite being one of Father's recipes. He made it up for sick people—ones distressed in matters of food, I mean. Health and flavor don't always go together, do they? And Father really shouldn't have been allowed near a kitchen. What he could do to a boiled egg would make you cry. I'm Miss Beaton, by the way. Miss Wendy Beaton. I told Uncle I knew you from before, so you should know my name."

Tired and worn out, Rumplestiltskin felt himself at sea and going under with this onslaught. He grasped for a simple question. "The doctor—Dr. Hastings, was it?—He's your uncle, then?"

"Oh, yes. My mother's brother-in-law. Not that they were close. Mother's sister—her half-sister, really-was fifteen years older than her, you know."

Rumplestiltskin hadn't known, but Miss Beaton happily gurgled on. Her uncle, Nathan Hastings, was a doctor of some note in the city. He and Miss Beaton's father, a Dr. David Beaton, had operated a hospital.

Miss Beaton cheerfully explained how Dr. Beaton, her father, was a remarkably driven doctor but a bad man of business. The hospital had started out as a rather small affair, a charity hospital constantly running out of money and supplies (which Dr. Beaton made up for out of his own pocket). It was his brother-in-law who had come in and put things on a proper footing.

Rumplestiltskin listened as she told a story about the hospital's washing, all while shoveling more food down him. Linens—nightclothes, bandages, bedding, and so forth—had been one of the hospital's many problems. "They always ran short," she said. "Or the clean linen wasn't really clean or any of a dozen other things. It was quite annoying and bad for the patients."

Dr. Hastings had the staff keep track of how much linen they went through in each ward (with listings for how badly dirtied the linens were and a separate column for ones considered unsalvageable). He came up with numbers for good weeks and bad weeks (and also discovered three staff members who had been stealing linen and other supplies. One was let go without a character and the other two were transported). He inspected the laundry where they were washed and found it wholly inadequate. Instead, he arranged for the linens to washed at the hospital by staff who were trained to know what hygienic meant. It was organized down to the last detail. They were to always have enough on hand to get them through a bad week with a budget and schedule for replacements, along with a regular washing schedule. The costs had actually gone down, as had the infections being spread from one patient to another.

Under Dr. Hastings, the hospital finally stopped outspending itself. He also began to find them new donors. It actually began to grow and expand. "And a good thing, too," Miss Beaton said. "There are far too many people who need it."

Rumplestiltskin thought she said some of these things about her uncle with the determined air of someone who meant to be fair, whether she liked it or not. But, when Miss Beaton talked about her father, her face glowed. Bad though he might have been with money, Miss Beaton's father had the same skills in searching for cures that his brother-in-law showed with organizing. He had records kept on _everything_ when it came to his patients. He believed sunshine and fresh air had a beneficial effect—and, despite the expense (Uncle Nathan had been "rather overwrought," according to Miss Beaton, which Rumplestiltskin suspected meant "frothing at the mouth like a mad dog") had had large windows put in the wards. He had kept close track of which foods seemed to speed recoveries for which illnesses (although he'd been unable to explain it, he'd found out—quite by accident—that water that had been _boiled_ for tea, even when it hadn't been _made_ into tea, reduced illness).

Miss Beaton's father had even had some success with madness, she confided.

The asylum was separate from the rest of the hospital. For some of the patients, great changes seemed to come just from rest, regular meals, and a general feeling of safety (Rumplestiltskin, eating his soup, did not comment). Others responded to having someone to talk to, someone who _listened. _

"Father said that treating people with dignity sometimes seemed enough to affect a cure. Many of the madhouses don't even give the patients clothes—something about the difficulty of undressing them, cleaning them, and redressing them. But, Father said you can't expect a man to stop acting like an animal if you treat him like an animal. Even if the patient _doesn't _notice, it makes a difference in how you treat the patient."

While some cases—far too many, in Miss Beaton's father's opinion—remained hopeless, he began to have some success with certain medicines, too. Some scientific research proved quite promising (some he dismissed as "mere quackery"). But—and this had been rather scandalous in medical circles—he had some success with folk remedies.

She started to tell how her father had learned some of these cures, when she stopped abruptly, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry. It's not a pleasant story. Perhaps, I shouldn't talk about it."

That was enough to make Bae _beg_ her to talk about it.

"Well, all right, but . . . have you heard of the murder of Bridget O'Reilly?" Miss Beaton didn't wait for an answer. "She was an Eirishwoman. She'd been horribly ill, it seems, and her family became convinced she'd been stolen by the fairies."

Bae looked at her as though Miss Beaton had said she'd been stolen by pigeons. "Stolen by _what?_"

"Fairies. It's a superstition they have in Eireland. The fairies they tell stories about aren't like the ones you hear." Rumplestiltskin doubted the ones he knew were anything like the ones heard here. But, he only nodded, encouraging Miss Beaton to go on.

"Their fairies are more like ghosts or monsters. The Eirish say they come from under the hill—only under the hill can also mean burial cairns and old ruins. Fairies are big as men, not little with butterfly wings. And they steal people. Sometimes, they put fairies in their place, disguised with magic to look like the missing person. Sometimes, they leave what looks like a dead body but it's really an old log or a bunch of sticks."

And, sometimes, fairies send them into strange worlds to starve and die. Not that it matters to them, Rumplestiltskin supposed, not if the power the fairies were afraid of is no longer around to worry them.

"As I said, Bridget O'Reilly was terribly ill. There'd been an Anglish doctor in to see her, but he couldn't help—to be quite honest, not that I'm supposed to know about things like the evils of drink (beyond knowing that drink's evil, of course), I understand this doctor was quite the drunkard and—pardon me—_not_ a good representative of the profession."

"Mrs. O'Reilly became worse and worse. They consulted a fairy doctor—that's an Eirishman who works cures with herbs and superstitions and things. _He_ told them the real Mrs. O'Reilly had been stolen away by fairies and that _this_ woman was really a changeling they'd left behind. Her family believed him, and—well, I won't go into details. Just that, in the end, they used fire to try and make her admit she was a changeling, and she died.

"Everyone was arrested. But, it seemed this wasn't the first time the fairy doctor had gotten someone killed. It seemed he—he was quite mad. He was put in the asylum. Father—even Father wouldn't forget himself and tell me all the things the man said. But, he could be quite lucid at times. When that happened, he would discuss herbs and folk treatments quite intelligently. Father said some of them actually worked, such as one concoction made from St. John's wort.

"When he wasn't lucid . . . well. . . ." she trailed off.

"Well, what?" Bae asked.

"Your father's ill, Bae. I'm sorry. I shouldn't bring up disturbing things."

Rumplestiltskin thought of what Bae and he had been through these past months. He doubted the girl could say anything to disturb him. But, he only said, "You need to tell Bae, or he'll die of curiosity. Which would guarantee I don't get any rest."

"Papa!"

"If it will help your recovery, Mr. Weaver, of course I'll tell you," Miss Beaton said primly with a happy smile. Then, the smile vanished. "I . . . I don't really know the_ details_. Just that . . . the man would beg for someone to—to kill. Father told me—he told me he was like a drunkard who'd gone too long without drink begging for just a drop of liquor. Oh, dear, I shouldn't say that, should I? Please, don't tell Uncle I called anyone a drunkard."

"Murderer's all right but drunkard isn't?" Bae asked.

"Murder happens. Drunkards happen, too, but it isn't proper to notice them." Miss Beaton gave a forlorn sigh. "My governess, Miss Grosvenor, despairs of me. Uncle got her specially for me—she's quite well recommended. He didn't think my old governess, Miss Thomas, paid as much attention as she should have to ladylike behavior—which is untrue, it's just that Father _would_ forget himself when he was talking to me. I picked up all sorts of bad habits from him. Miss Grosvenor nearly fainted when I mentioned something about the function of the kidneys.

"And Miss Thomas knew Latin and calculus, which Miss Grosvenor doesn't, although her French _is _very good. But, I asked her to check my calculations when I was trying to estimate how far away the Romans could have been when they used catapults against that giant serpent in Africa—you know, in their war with the Punics?—and she looked at me as though I'd grown another head and told me to practice my penmanship. I'd always thought the story a bit iffy—don't you imagine lots of muddy ground and trees and jungle vines in the way? It seems a very difficult place to set up a catapult—but I didn't think it deserved copying ten pages of poetry." Miss Beaton heaved a truly martyred sigh. "Especially _Keats_."

She was an intelligent, amusing child. And, even if she found her uncle difficult, he protected her from the world outside. He protected Rumplestiltskin and Bae from the world outside—the hunger, the cold, and the terrible despair of knowing he was losing the war to keep himself alive—and knowing how slim Bae's chances of survival were without him.

All that was gone. What was left to fear?

But, if there was nothing left to fear, why was he so afraid of this place?

He looked in Miss Beaton's eyes and saw her own fear as she spoke of her uncle. He didn't dare ask her his questions.

X

**Place Names:**

Londyn instead of London (taken from the Roman name, Londinium).

Skots and Skotland instead of Scots and Scotland.

Eireland and Eirish instead of Ireland and Irish (taken from Eire, another name for Ireland).

Waels and Waelsh instead of Wales and Welsh.

**People and Things:**

The story Wendy tells about Bridget O'Reilly is based on the true story of Bridget Cleary. However, Denis Ganey, the real Fairy Doctor, was not a serial killer and, despite the horrible turn of events, did not mean to get Bridget killed. St. John's Wort, which is used today to treat depression and other conditions, was used the same way in Ireland as well as a treatment for fairy possession. It made sense, then, that the Fairy Doctor would use it in his less lethal treatments.


	4. Lost Rose

**Note: **I've been told the altered spellings have confused some people. The altered place names are because this is an alternate universe. It's like our Victorian Era but not exactly the same. Things may be borrowed from any part of the 19th century as needed. See the bottom for further notes on the place names.

X

Rhosyn huddled up against the cold, wet bark of the tree. It kept her warmer than night air of the forest.

The Shadow had gone. When it came, it clawed its way into her and tore her apart from the inside. Worst of all, she could feel it in her mind and heart, feel how it thought, how it _felt._

And, once it was inside her, it made her _see._

But, it was gone. The shadows around her were only an empty darkness broken by the darker outlines of the black trees. She shivered in the cold, but that was nothing. The darkness that ate her from the inside was gone. She was safe now.

"Rhosyn? Rhosyn!"

Someone was talking to her, shaking her. She looked up, confused. Then, she recognized the lined face with its large, kind eyes. She had dreamt him, hadn't she? Or was this another dream? "Rumplestiltskin?"

"Rhosyn, get up. You're not safe here."

"I'm safe," she said drowsily. "It's gone."

"Rhosyn, _get up._"

Rumplestiltskin was pulling her to her feet. "Walk with me," he said. He was putting something warm around her shoulders. His coat. He'd given her his coat. "Please, just a little ways. I think I know how to get out of this wood."

She was so _tired. . . . _But, she stumbled along beside him. The ground was oddly slick beneath them. "Where are we going?"

"If we have to, I think I can find my cottage. But, that wouldn't be a good choice. Can you think of a place you know? A place that feels safe to you?"

"I—I can't remember. . . ."

"You don't need to remember. You just need to think of it."

"That makes no sense. . . ."

"So, don't think about what I said, think about the place. Picture it in your mind, a place where you feel safe."

Safe. What was safe? Safe was sunlight. Warmth. Safe was looking out a window and seeing places beyond, places that didn't hide anything coming for you. It was food that tasted sweet and light, none of the dark, shadow tastes of poison and blood. . . .

The forest began to change. Silvery light spilled into it. The ground began to feel different. Rhosyn looked down and saw old leaves beginning to cover up the dark, wet earth beneath.

"What is that?" she asked Rumplestiltskin. "The ground. I feel like I should know it."

"It's muddy," he said. "Is that what you mean?"

"Mud," Rhosyn repeated. "I remember that. Mud. When the ground is wet?"

"Yes." He looked at her oddly. "Haven't you ever seen mud?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I don't remember." The air became warmer and lighter as they walked. The trees began to thin out. There was something above them, something that seemed to stretch on and on forever. It was blue, like the color in the veins at her wrists, lying just beneath the skin. "Sky," Rhosyn said. "That's sky, isn't it?"

"Yes," Rumplestiltskin said. "You know sky?"

"Sky is outside overhead. And blue," she recited it like a lesson. "The other woman—not the regular one, another one—I remember her saying I had sky blue eyes," she added, as if she needed to explain how she knew its color.

"They're sapphire, I'd have said. Who were they, this other woman and the not-other woman?"

"I don't know. Not really. They bring the food. They bring the medicine. The first one does it usually. The other one only comes when the first one can't. She talks more. Mostly, she complains about the extra work. But, I think—I think she says things she's not supposed to. I don't think she's supposed to talk about _sky._"

They had reached a path. The ground was hard and dry, not-mud. Bursts of colors grew along it. Flowers. She knew that word. Those were flowers.

The path led to a stone wall, a small one, just high enough to keep out sheep and pigs (_What are sheep?_ Rhosyn wondered. _What are pigs?_). There was a wooden gate, painted white. Rumplestiltskin unlatched the gate and led her in. There was a house at the end, a very pretty one with plaster walls and a slate roof (she'd seen plaster walls outside her room, and she'd seen different kinds of stone). Rumplestiltskin didn't bother to knock (_Why do I think he should knock? _ _When have I heard someone knock before entering a room?_). He just opened the door and helped her inside.

There was a small room off to the side. Its walls were covered with off-white paper decorated with pink flowers (_Roses. The flowers outside by the door are called roses. Where did I learn that name?_). There was . . . something that was made for sitting, like a chair. But, it was longer than a chair. It had cushions, like a bed. Except it wasn't a bed. "What is this?" she asked Rumplestiltskin as he helped her onto it.

"A sofa," he said. "You don't know that word either?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm sorry." She looked at him. "Is that strange? Not knowing these things? Do most people?"

"I think so. But, I know less about the world than I should. It keeps proving stranger than I imagined. Are you still cold? Let me build up the fire. And I think there's tea."

Fire. That meant the flame in the small lamps. But this was larger, many flames instead of one. Its flames danced up and down in ways steady, even lamps would never dream of. Rumplestiltskin heated a small kettle of water over the flames, then poured it into a cup on a tray cluttered with other cups and bowls. "Let the tea leaves seep a bit," he told her, whatever that meant. "Do you know how you like your tea? There's cream in this pot, and this one has honey."

"What's cream? What's honey?"

"Cream is like milk. Do you know milk?" Rhosyn nodded. "And honey is sweet. Like sugar. Do you know sugar? No? Never mind. Let me add some in. It's sticky, if you get it on your fingers. But, it will dissolve in tea."

Rhosyn looked at it uncertainly. "Is tea . . . medicine?"

"No, just something warm to make you feel better. And I know a young girl who swears milk is good for people dying of hunger. So, I imagine cream will be good for you." He smiled as he handed her the cup and fixed another for himself.

Rhosyn hesitated, studying the cup. The one the woman gave her with her meals was made of tin. This was pottery, like the bowl her food—usually some kind of gruel—was brought in. But the bowl was thick and ugly compared to this. This cup reminded her of the ice that sometimes formed on her window on cold days, white and so thin, she could almost see the tea through its sides. One side had a finely etched design of . . . she wasn't sure what, but it reminded her of the plants outside. "It's so beautiful," she said. "So delicate. I'm afraid I'll break it. Or it will melt in my hands." A silly thing to think when it was already so hot, yet she could imagine it dissolving where her fingers touched the . . . porcelain. That was the word for this. Porcelain. Fine china.

"It's just a cup," Rumplestiltskin told her. "Its whole purpose is for people to drink from it. It will feel sad and meaningless if you don't."

She laughed. Then, she wondered if she was supposed to laugh. Perhaps it was true. In a world that already had wonders like _flowers_ and _sky_, a cup with hurt feelings barely deserved comment.

But, she saw the warm humor in Rumplestiltskin's eyes, and decided he had hoped to make her laugh. Rhosyn watched the cup as she sipped her tea, all the same, wondering how you could tell if a cup was feeling sad. It was blessedly warm. The "honey" _was_ sweet. So was the cream. The flavors were strangely familiar.

But, not real. They lacked something she couldn't name. "Am I dreaming?" she asked him.

"I think so. I know I am."

She pressed her fingers around the cup. It didn't melt. Real or not, sad or not, it was warm and comforting. Her shivering had almost vanished, but— "I don't understand. How can I feel warm in a dream? How can I taste honey and tea? And—if none of this is real, why bother? Why take me out of the woods? Why come here? If none of this is real, what difference does it make?"

"Have you ever woken from a nightmare and been glad it was over? Nightmares aren't real. But, waking from them makes a difference, doesn't it?"

She frowned. "I don't think that's the same. Is it?"

Rumplestiltskin sighed. "I don't know. But, the first time we met, I saw the thing that attacked you. I know . . . something about—about _things_ like that. It attacked you again?"

Rhosyn nodded, shuddering at the memory.

"I'm sorry I wasn't—I wasn't there. I think—I think I can stop it. When I'm there." Rumplestiltskin looked haunted and guilty.

"It's not your fault," Rhosyn said. "You aren't the one who—who makes me see it."

He didn't look convinced but he didn't argue. "That thing is real. Or real enough." He gave her a weak, lopsided grin. "If any of this is real. I keep hoping this is _my _nightmare. If that's true, nothing bad is happening to you."

Oh, now there was a thought. If she were nothing more than a piece of his dream, and none of this—_none _of this—was real. "That would be _lovely. . . ."_

He stared at her a moment, not quite expecting that reaction. "Yes, well, if it's real and if _you're_ real, it's hurting you. And it's . . . doing something. Feeding on you? Using you? I don't know. Whatever it does . . . that place we were, the dark forest, that's a dark place inside of you—or wherever dreams are. Being there is like a wound in your soul. You don't want to stay.

"This place is the opposite of that. It's a place that—that nourishes you. And keeps you safe."

Rhosyn looked at the "sofa" and the pot of "honey" and all the other strange things. "You think this is inside me? How? I don't know the names of these things. I don't remember them." No, not entirely true. She'd remembered roses. Flavors and smells were familiar. "Is this place made from your memories? Did you make it for me?"

Rumplestiltskin shook his head. "I told you to think of somewhere safe. This is yours. You've only forgotten it." He looked at her with concern, scanning her face as if he could somehow find her memories in it. "What do you remember?"

"Gray walls," she said. "I live in a room. There's a bed. There's a door. It has a small window with bars. There's another window, a larger one. It lets in light. But, the glass, it's not like the glass in the bottles they sometimes have medicine in. It's white. It has bars, too.

"There's a hallway outside. They never let me out by myself. One of the women always comes. And men, guards. There are other rooms with doors like mine up and down the hallway. I can hear the people in them, sometimes. So, I know I'm not alone." He was looking at her oddly. That must be a very small world, she thought, when he knew worlds with infinite blue above them and paths you could walk down forever.

Odd. She'd been so tired and so sick when she woke with him holding her that first time, she'd barely noticed what the world around her was like, then. But, hadn't there been sky, there, too? And flowers. She was sure she remembered flowers.

Rhosyn tried to think of other things to say about her world. "There's another room where they make me take a bath. Once every seven days. I've counted. Another room—when they first gave me—gave blood, I wouldn't eat it. I didn't eat, not for three days. Then, they took me to a room with a table. It had straps to hold me down. They put a tube in my throat and—and made me eat.

"They did that. A few times. I'm not sure how many. Till I gave up and just ate.

"But, something happened," she added. The food stopped having blood. It had the other things—medicines, poisons. They made me sick but they didn't make me see. Or not more than I usually do."

"What do you mean when you say it makes you see, Rhosyn? What do you see?"

She shrugged. "Things. Bad things, usually. Nightmares. It doesn't make sense. They ask me questions sometimes. I think I answer them. I think I scream. After, when I wake up, my throat is soar."

"You told me they hadn't seen me, that I mustn't let them see me. Who do you mean? What shouldn't they see?"

"I. . . ." she shook her head. "I don't know. When I looked at you, I saw layers. I saw hidden things even you may not know about. And I could feel eyes looking at you. I thought of them seeing the hidden things and it frightened me. Terrified me."

Rumplestiltskin looked troubled as he thought about this. "Do you see at other times? Or only when they give you poisons?" He used her word. Not like the woman. She called Rhosyn a mad fool and told her to eat while the food was hot. . . . Not that it ever was hot. Even the pretend warmth of this tea was more convincing.

"Sometimes," she told him. "Small things. Little warnings. I worry for the woman—the other woman who brings things. She talks so much. I—I saw her words hurting her." Rhosyn tried to explain how it worked. "It wasn't really _seeing_. I just knew. Or not even that. I felt it, I think. Like knowing something is dangerous even if nothing bad has happened—or hasn't happened _yet._ Those are clearer. I . . . understand more. When I eat the poisons, it—it's like looking at a million shards from a broken mirror, with all the images changing before you can see what they are. I was so relieved when they stopped bringing it to me."

"But, they started again?"

She shuddered. "Yes. And—it's worse. I looked at it, and—before, it was like—like being in a room with a vicious dog, one you know will attack you. But—it's just a dog. It's not even a mad dog, just a bad one.

"But this—it's like being locked up with—with something _awful_. A monster. What it does—it tears me out from the inside. It—it—" Rhosyn shook her head. She didn't have the words for this. Maybe Rumplestiltskin knew them—maybe they were words like "sky" and "blue" that belonged to the world he said she'd forgotten. If so, she could do without remembering them.

"A monster," Rumplestiltskin said. There was something—bitterness? amusement?—in his voice. "I see." He took her hands and looked at her very intently. "Listen to me, Rhosyn. When it comes for you, think of this place. Come here, if you can. But, even if you can't escape it, _remember this place_. Come here when it's gone. You're safe here, and this place will help you. It can heal what the—the darkness does. A little."

Rhosyn looked at him, perplexed and a little wary. "How can you promise that?"

"I have . . . a little power. Magic, if you will. I . . . don't think I can keep it away from you." There was a bitter humor in his eyes. "I can't keep it away from myself. But . . . I can set certain boundaries. It can't cross the wall or the gate. It can't enter here. I can do that."

Rhosyn looked around the room. A warm place. With honey and with roses on the walls. "I can come here? And drink tea?"

"If you like. Will you remember this place? When you wake?"

"I think so. I remember meeting you. When you sent the darkness away. Why? Don't you remember?"

"I remember when I dream. When this dream began, I remembered you. I knew you must be here and that I could find you. I don't remember when I wake." He grimaced. "I don't remember _these_ dreams. There are others I remember too well."

**Note:** Hopefully, this chapter answers where Rhosyn is on the "Belle" scale. I think of her as a Belle avatar. She has much the same soul as Belle but has lived a very different life. This has made her a different person.

**Place Names:**

Londyn instead of London (taken from the Roman name, Londinium).

Skots and Skotland instead of Scots and Scotland.

Eireland and Eirish instead of Ireland and Irish (taken from Eire, another name for Ireland).

Waels and Waelsh instead of Wales and Welsh.


	5. Cause of Death

**Wintersmith: **I've been compared to Dr. Who! Thank you! (Does happy dance). Of course, that makes it kind of disturbing every time I type "the doctor." Those two words show up a lot in this story.

For everyone else reading this, thank you and I hope you enjoy it. If there's anything confusing or that doesn't work, please, let me know.

**Note: **I was told some of my spellings were confusing. The odd place names are because this takes place in an alternate universe (the Bae who became Neal Cassady went to the real Victorian London. This is another universe's version). Spellings and dates of historic events will vary. Anything from any part of the century may show up as needed. See the end for further details.

X

"_What is your name?"_

_The crying child looked up, frightened. He was sitting on the cot where the orderlies had placed him, the manacle around his ankle attached to a chain that led to the wall. It was hard to make out anything by the dim light of the small candle that had been left behind, but he could see the glint of metal at the other end of the room and a shadowy shape behind it._

"_Wh—who's there?"_

_There was a soft laugh out of the darkness. "I'm nobody, nobody at all." It was a man's voice. It laughed again. "You can call me that if you like."_

"_Nobody?"_

"_Or Mr. Nobody. That would be more polite, wouldn't it? Please, tell me your name."_

"_T-Thomas, Thomas Martin."_

"_Hello, Thomas Martin, it's nice to meet you."_

_Thomas' eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark. The metal glint he saw came from thick bars. Big enough, Thomas thought, to hold in a lion._

"_Y-you're in a cage. Are you a monster?"_

_There was a pause, and Thomas wondered if he had offended it—him?—with his question. Then, there was a sad, rueful laugh. "Perhaps. But not—not a very _bad_ monster, Thomas. I won't harm you. I promise."_

"_Please, sir, why am I here? What are they going to do to me?"_

"_That . . . depends. Where were you before this, Thomas?"_

"_The workhouse, sir."_

"_The workhouse," Nobody—Mr. Nobody repeated. His voice sounded funny, flat and dead. "Did you have family there? Or anywhere?" Mr. Nobody asked. There was a rise of hope in his voice._

"_Mum's dead," Thomas said. "Don't have anyone else."_

"_I see."_

"_What's wrong, sir?"_

"_Wrong?"_

"_You—you sound sad."_

"_Do I? I suppose it's this cage. I don't like being locked up all the time."_

"_Am—am I going to be locked up?"_

"_For a little while," the shadow said. "Not for long."_

"_Please, sir, what's going to happen?"_

_Another pause. "What did they tell you?"_

"_I—I need to see the doctor."_

"_That's . . . right. This is a—a hospital. Did you see much of it when you came in?"_

"_I—I saw some big rooms with people in beds. Then—then we came here. The doors were all closed. But, I heard people screaming."_

"_Oh. Yes. There's a part of the—the hospital for people . . . people who are mad. They keep them locked up."_

"_I'm not mad!"_

"_No, no, of course not. It's only that the doctor's . . . laboratory is right by that part of the hospital. Somebody has to be here, after all, don't they? I suppose he drew the short straw."_

"_But—but what does he want? Why am I here?"_

"_He . . . does doctor things. Surgeries."_

"_Surgeries?"_

"_Sometimes doctors do things that—that hurt. For a little while. I—I promise you Thomas, what the doctor does will only hurt for a little while. When he's done . . . it won't hurt at all. And it won't be for long. Then . . . then you won't have to come back here—not ever again."_

X

_**Yesterday **__**Dr. Grimm Westcox held an inquest at **__**Soersditch**__**, respecting the death of Lizzie Crewes, aged 77 years, of 32 East Street, Holbourne, who died on Wednesday last. Allison Mathews stated that she was landlady of the house where deceased lived. Witness last saw her alive on the previous Monday. She lived quite alone. Mr. Frank Burch, relieving officer for the Holbourne district, stated that deceased had occupied the room in question for thirty-five years. When witness was called, on the 1st, he found the old woman in a terrible state, and the ambulance and coachman had to be disinfected after the removal. Dr. Nathan Hastings said death was due to blood-poisoning from bed-sores, due to self-neglect and filthy surroundings, and the jury returned a verdict to that effect.**_

Rumplestiltskin sat by the window in the room he'd been given, reading yesterday's newspaper. Newspapers were remarkable things, he thought, printed daily and full of such tiny, insignificant details.

He didn't know the woman. Bedridden, from the sound of it. It may have been months, even years since she left her room.

Odd to know he would have envied her, a woman well enough off to afford _her own room_ in the East Side where those who could afford a room often shared it with five or six others.

Self-neglect. An old woman, too sick and weak to get out of bed, died of infected bed-sores. She was so filthy and covered with vermin that a coachman willing to go to that part of town and, you would think, as numb as the rest of the people there to the disease and dirt—he'd had to disinfect his ambulance after having her in it. She'd been dying in her own filth, unable to get up, and they blamed her for it: _self-neglect._

What would they have called it if his corpse had joined the long line carted to the morgues each day? Suicide by starvation?

And the doctor who had judged and dismissed Lizzie Crewes' death was the same one he now owed his life to.

Despite that, he should feel safer, Rumplestiltskin told himself. He and Bae had been rescued, if only for a little while. They'd been given food and a place to rest. Miss Beaton poured over her father's notes, preparing meals for him and watching anxiously for signs that she hadn't killed him with over-feeding.

Over-feeding. In the months he and Bae had lived on the streets, had he even imagined dying of that?

Somehow, the servants had decided he and Bae had been gentlemen farmers—or (he'd heard them whisper) even _gentlemen—_who had fallen on hard times. His hair, long to begin with, had grown several inches over the past months. It wasn't as if he had spare coins to waste cutting it. But, it seemed long hair tied back in a queue was a mark of the well-born in Skotland, especially those who had served in the army. Ironic that his ragged, beggar's mane had been turned into proof of his "good blood," as had his brief answers to questions about his leg—a war wound, he'd told them, and left it at that—but it meant the servants didn't resent him or treat him like a mangy, disease-ridden rat that had crawled out of the gutters and into their nice, clean house.

This would end, he knew, the food, the warm room and the sound roof overhead. Dr. Hastings would decide he was well. The servants would decide they'd had enough of him. Even Miss Beaton, kind-hearted though she was, would recover from whatever impulse led her to rescue vermin.

At least, the doctor would be likely to give him new clothes—Bae told him how they had burnt his old ones. After all, whatever their flaws, Rumplestiltskin doubted wealthy doctors wanted to be seen throwing beggars out naked in the street—or in a borrowed nightshirt and bathrobe. But, he couldn't expect more.

Yet, he hoped. Perhaps, if he was very lucky, the doctor or one of the upper servants might give him a letter of recommendation. Armed with that and good clothes, perhaps he could find work as a clerk of some sort, work at a desk where his bad leg wouldn't be held against him. Perhaps, he'd even be able to afford things like a room, however small, and heat and food for himself and Bae.

He might live as long as Lizzie Crewes. It wouldn't such a bad life, to have a room and bed of his own. If a day came when he couldn't get out of it, well, it was still better dying in his own home than being a nameless corpse that was only found because someone wondered what all the rats could be gnawing on.

And he would be out of this house.

That was what he couldn't say, not to Bae, not to anyone. There was something in this house that made him go cold inside. It was all he could do not to grab Bae and run.

_Don't let them see you, not till it's too late._

He shook his head, trying to clear it. His dreams were troubled. Miss Beaton said it was the medicine her uncle had given him. It caused nightmares for some people.

Of course, she only knew he'd had bad dreams for the first day or so. Bae, who wouldn't leave his side for the first two days, had told her as much. But, Bae now slept in the room across the hall, his fears for his father finally ebbing. Rumplestiltskin had no reason to tell him the nightmares went on, night after night. Some, he didn't remember. The others. . . .

He dreamt of people being killed, tortured to death. Sometimes, he saw the room where it was happening. Dark and windowless, he saw what he knew were spellbooks lining the walls along with tools and ingredients for spells.

A dark wizard's workroom, perhaps the lair of Zoso or his other predecessors? When the curse first settled into him, he had found himself filled with knowledge about magic and spells, more than he could have learned in a score of lifetimes. If he had the knowledge gathered by past Dark Ones, why shouldn't he have their other memories as well?

But, if that's what it was, why had it taken so long for him to start dreaming of their past crimes?

Last night, after the screams of a boy about half Bae's age had finally faded away, he had turned and seen a cage at the far side of the room. It had bars thick enough to hold a lion, but manacles made to hold a man's ankles and wrists hung from the bars.

"_It's waiting for you,"_ a voice whispered in his ear, laughing. _"Don't think you'll escape. They'll have you in the end."_

He had woken, heart pounding, drowning in the need to get away, to _run_.

But, there was nowhere to go. If the curse was hunting him, even here, in this magicless world, where was there any place left for him to go?

And, if it was just a dream, what kind of man drove his son out onto the street to escape the only people who cared if they lived or died?

There was a peremptory knock at the door before it swung open. Doctor Hastings strode in.

Rumplestiltskin put the paper down and started to stand up. The doctor motioned for him to sit back down. "Please, Mr. Weaver, stay where you are."

Mr. Weaver. So, he was Mr. Weaver to the doctor as well.

"You're reading the newspaper?" the doctor asked. If his eyebrows crept up a bit higher than they might have at this proof of his patient's literacy, at least he didn't comment on it. "Anything of note?"

"I saw you spoke at an inquest," Rumplestiltskin said. He spoke quietly, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "Do you do that often?"

The doctor glanced at the paper. "Ah, Mrs. Crewes. An unfortunate case, that. Yes, sadly. I often have to fill out death certificates. By the time she was brought in, there was very little we could do for her. She died within an hour of being admitted."

"Of . . . self-neglect."

"Indeed. As I said, a sad case. But, that's not what I wanted to speak to you about."

"Oh?" Did they mean to send him and Bae away already? He'd thought they had a few more days grace.

"About your son, Bae. You know he's been taking lessons with Wendy and hergoverness?"

Rumplestiltskin nodded. "I understand you were the one who insisted on it, sir. Thank you."

The doctor shrugged. "We could hardly let him spend his days by your bedside, could we? And it keeps him out from underfoot. A boy that age needs exercise and air—and something to occupy his thoughts."

"Yes, sir."

"The thing is, Miss Grosvenor, Wendy's governess, showed me some of the boy's work." The doctor looked at Rumplestiltskin as though he were a bug he couldn't classify. "There are gaps in his education—huge gaps. But, he's quite intelligent. _Remarkably_ intelligent."

"Sir?"

"Miss Grosvenor quizzed him on the War of the Roses. He knew nothing about it. She gave him some chapters to read. When she quizzed him again, he was able to recite everything he'd read. He knew the names of everyone on both sides and how they were connected with each other. He even kept them straight, all the Richards and Henrys and all the rest of it."

The way the doctor was looking at him, Rumplestiltskin couldn't decide if this was a good thing of a bad thing in his eyes. "Bae's always had a good memory," he said cautiously.

The doctor continued to stare at him. "What were you?" the doctor finally asked. "Bae's no commoner. I doubt you were either. What were you before you came to Londyn?"

_You're better off never knowing the answer to that question. _He wondered how the doctor would react if he told him exactly how common Bae and he had really been. Until they weren't. But, there was no point in being branded a madman. He told a more careful version of the truth. "It may be we were better off, once. But, that hardly matters now, sir. I want you to know how grateful Bae and I are for what you've done for us."

"Putting you up for a few days? That's hardly worth your thanks."

"I have to disagree, sir." As much as he wanted to be away from this place, Rumplestiltskin couldn't deny what the man had done for them. "I'd likely be dead. And I shudder to think what would have happened to Bae."

"You're welcome to your opinion, of course," Dr. Hastings spoke stiffly, as though thanks were unfamiliar to him. "But, you were the one who taught Bae to read?"

"Yes, sir."

"And taught him the rest of what he knows?"

"I . . . as you said, sir, there are a great many gaps in his education. I'm the one to blame for that."

"Please, he's a remarkable child. Given how you've lived, I'm amazed at what he knows.

"It makes me think you might be suitable for a job I have. Not immediately, of course. Not till you're stronger. But, I think you'd do quite well at it. You know my brother-in-law passed away? Wendy's father?"

A job? Rumplestiltskin knew he should jump at the chance. Instead, he replied cautiously. "I'd understood she was an orphan, yes."

"Her father was a doctor as well. A great man for theories, even if he didn't have a practical bone in his body. He kept notes on everything he did. I've been meaning to hire someone to put his papers in order, but I haven't gotten around to it. They need to be organized and indexed for publication. I'd like you to do it. It would include room and board. You and your son could stay here—Bae can continue taking lessons with my niece, so you needn't worry about him."

"Sir—I can't—you don't mean—" Rumplestiltskin's shock was real enough. He didn't know how to reply. It was an act of pity on the face of it. The doctor was taking pity on two strangers and offering them a chance to save their lives.

So, why did Rumplestiltskin feel as if a trap was closing in on him?

"You needn't decide now," the doctor said. "Think about it. Discuss it with your son. I wanted to discuss it with you, first, but I think my niece has put together what I'm up to." He shook his head. "Girls have the most amazing talent for picking up gossip. She's likely told your son already."

"I see." Bae knew. And Bae, who acted as though Dr. Hasting was an angel sent from the gods to rescue them, would never understand if Rumplestiltskin turned the man down.

Rumplestiltskin wasn't sure he would understand himself.

If they left, how long would he survive on the streets? If he died, how long till Bae followed after him?

"Thank you," Rumplestiltskin said. "I . . . don't know what to say. Except thank you."

And he felt the jaws of the trap close.

X

**Place Names: **

Londyn instead of London (from the Roman name, Londinium).

Skotland (and Skots) instead of Scotland.

Eireland and Eirish instead of Ireland and Irish (Eire being another name for Ireland).

Wales is Waels and the people are Waelsh, not Welsh.

Edinburg instead of Edinburgh.

**People and Things:**

The news article was taken from Jack London's book about the lives of the poor in London in 1902, _The People of the Abyss._ Names were changed and Dr. Hastings became the one who ruled it death by self-neglect.


	6. Libraries, Death, and Tea

**Note: This takes place in an alternate universe version of Victorian London. The spellings of some places and people are different. Also, the times are a little different. Anything from any part of the 19th century may show up as needed. See the end for further details.**

The doctor had a magnificent library. It had been a point of pride in Rumplestiltskin's village that their priest had no less than _seven_ books, each of them beautifully written out by hand. The old women who raised Rumplestiltskin had had three that they taught him to read out of. The doctor had hundreds, and there were libraries and universities in the city that counted their collections in thousands.

Dr. Hastings had given Rumplestiltskin a brief tour when he began his work, explaining how the books were organized and showing him several basic medical texts he thought would help Rumplestiltskin understand the gist of Dr. Beaton's work.

That was also when Rumplestiltskin had seen the portrait hanging over the fireplace. It was of a young man, perhaps in his twenties. It also had a pleated border of black crepe attached to the frame, a sign that the man in the painting was recently dead. "Is that Dr. Beaton?" he asked.

There was a flash of cold fury in Dr. Hastings eyes before he managed to hide it. "No," he said curtly. "That's my son."

Rumplestiltskin looked at the black crepe around the portrait and the black mourner's band the doctor still wore on his coat. "I'm sorry," he said hastily. "I thought—I knew Miss Beaton's father had died. I didn't know you'd suffered a bereavement as well."

"Of course not. How could you know?" Dr. Hastings said. The anger—if it had been anger—was gone from his voice. "I don't speak of it." He looked at the painting. The young man had wavy, brown hair and dark eyes. The artist had captured a look of courage and warmth in his expression that reminded Rumplestiltskin strongly of Bae. "He took after his mother," the doctor said. "Her father's family was French—_émigrés from the revolution. He was brave, but far too hot-headed. I would have had him become a doctor or, if that didn't suit him, perhaps a barrister or professor. Instead, he insisted on going into the army."_

_Rumplestiltskin thought of his own son. Bae had been so brave and ready to fight in the Ogre Wars, a young boy with no idea of the horrors of war. "He died in battle?" Rumplestiltskin asked._

_"He was wounded," the doctor said. "They told us he was likely crippled for life. The army doctors may have thought they were sending him home to die. But . . . he was a brave, remarkable boy. He recovered the use of his legs. Even my brother-in-law was amazed. He was making remarkable strides. But, he pushed himself too hard. One day, he suffered a collapse. He had an inflammation of the lungs. _

_"I was away on business when it happened. By the time I was summoned, it was too late. There was nothing I could do for him."_

_Rumplestiltskin remembered the night he had killed Zoso, remembered arriving at his small home just as the soldiers were taking Bae away. He remembered holding Bae's hand over the vortex that opened into this world, not knowing if he would be able to hold on. He tried to imagine what it would feel like if, after saving Bae from the war, after seeing him survive by what seemed like a miracle, his son had been torn away from him without warning. "I'm sorry," Rumplestiltskin said. "I don't know how I would go on if something happened to Bae. I'm sorry for your loss." ____I'm sorry for your loss__. The words were true, yet so small and inadequate to hold that truth._

_"It's past," the doctor said, straightening up, his face once more cold and imperturbable. "And it can't be undone. The servants have orders to make sure the fire is kept up while you're in here. You wouldn't want to take cold. And don't over-exert yourself. Dr. Beaton's papers have been sitting here for months. A little longer will hardly hurt them."_

_X_

Wendy was in the library helping Bae get through a chapter of _Beginning Latin._ Mr. Weaver didn't mind if they studied in here instead of the schoolroom while Uncle wasn't there to object. In fact, he seemed to enjoy having them about.

He was looking much better, Wendy thought, with a touch of what she thought must be professional pride (even if she wasn't a professional and couldn't ever become one). Mr. Weaver was still a thin man, but no one would call him skeletal. She thought he even looked a bit dapper. He wore dark trousers and well-made, brightly polished boots (although Uncle's valet, Smith, would never stoop to polishing Mr. Weaver's boots, he seemed to have taken a liking to him and had shocked the entire household by _showing Mr. Weaver how to polish his own_, an unheard of act_._ He had even—if rumor was to be believed—showed him how to make _his secret, boot-polish formula_).

Mr. Weaver's hair, hanging several inches down his back, was tied back with black ribbon in a soldier's bow. His jacket had a neat cut that suggested rather than copied a soldier's coat. The color was dark brown enough to look like something any respectable man of business might wear with just enough red underlying it to remind one of military colors (Smith had gone with Mr. Weaver when Uncle sent him to the tailor's).

Bae was also better dressed. For the first few days, Uncle (who said sentimentality was the sign of a weak mind) had given him some of Cousin Benjamin's old clothes from when he was about Bae's age. Most of those had gone back in the attic, and Bae was wearing things that weren't obviously ten years out of date, although Uncle Nathan hadn't bothered with a couple of the shirts, one of which Bae was wearing now—although Bae, at least, didn't have Cousin Benjamin's dreadful habit of using his sleeves for blotting paper.

As Wendy finished quizzing Bae on his declensions, Mr. Weaver looked up from the book he was reading, Greis' _Anatomy_. "Miss Beaton—" (Mr. Weaver never forgot himself and called her Wendy) "—How did your people come to know so much about anatomy?"

_Your people._ Careful as he might be about names, Mr. Weaver made odd slips about other things. Many of the best doctors in the empire—perhaps the world—came from the school in Edinburg, the capital of Skotland. Yet, Mr. Weaver, a Skot, spoke of "your people." Wendy filed it away for later consideration and answered his question. "Dissections," she said brightly. "The medical schools have rights to unclaimed bodies from the morgues. There are body sellers—although the laws have tightened up on that since the Burk and Harre scandal." Something that also happened in Skotland. Better not mention that. "Oh, and poor people sometimes make arrangements, too, since the schools will usually give the family some money and pay for the burial afterwards."

Mr. Weaver had a peculiar look on his face. "I see." He looked down at a drawing of the bones in the leg. "Tell me, Miss Beaton, do you think it's a . . . selling point if a dead man had some severe injury in life? Would a badly healed bone be educational? Or would it detract from the value since it doesn't meet the usual standard?"

"Papa!" Bae looked ill, but he rallied to Wendy's defense. "You know she didn't mean that!"

Wendy wasn't sure what "that" was. If Bae meant she hadn't been thinking of how her cheerful descriptions of dissections and morgues sounded to a man who looked at those pictures and saw his own face looking back, she hadn't. If he meant she wasn't far too callous about the most appalling things, he was wrong. "I'm sorry, Mr. Weaver," Wendy said contritely. "I didn't mean—I wasn't thinking—"

"No, no, I'm the one who's sorry," Mr. Weaver said. He still looked peculiar. "It's just . . . a very odd feeling." He looked at the book again and managed a strained, wry grin. "I suppose doctors must learn." He traced the straight lines of the healthy bones with his finger. "Just, promise me, no matter what the educational value, you'll try to find some other way to bury me. If it ever becomes necessary. I can't say I like the thought of strangers gawking at me."

Wendy imagined some of the (Father would be upset at her thinking of them this way but it was true) _stupider_ medical students she'd known, the ones who got scared and nervous around death and suffering and who made the _stupidest_ jokes to try and prove it didn't bother them at all. She imagined what some of them might say, looking at Mr. Weaver's leg—or at the body of a man who died of starvation. She resolved to put _them _on the dissecting slab before she let that happen (if Burk and Harre could do it, so could she). "Of course, Mr. Weaver."

Bae glared at both of them. "It won't be necessary because it's not going to happen."

"No," Wendy said, looking down at her black, mourning dress and thinking of her father. "Nothing like that will happen." She didn't look at the black framed picture of Cousin Benjamin. He had been improving remarkably, she remembered. Till, suddenly, he wasn't.

Wendy cleared her throat. "Bae, I'm not sure if you understood the difference between second declensions in the neuter form and second declensions in the masculine. I want you to write down some examples of each."

Bae groaned and picked up his pen. She saw the ink stains on his sleeves, leftovers from the original owner. Benjamin used to quiz her on her Latin and Greek, even if Uncle did say he shouldn't encourage a her such pursuits.

Despite the stains that were already there, Bae kept his sleeves carefully clear of any ink, writing in a neat hand the six declensions of _puer,_ boy, masculine, followed by _bellum, _war, neuter.

**X**

Rumplestiltskin sat in the parlor of Rhosyn's home, drinking tea that tasted faintly of heather from the honey he'd mixed in with it, talking with her. In the odd way of dreams, his teacup kept changing. One moment, it was whole, like the one Rhosyn held. The next, it had a small chip. He watched it come and go.

"I love the way things are in your home," he told her.

Rhosyn frowned, looking around her. "What makes you sure it's my home?" The way she looked at the parlor, he might just as well have told her the sun and sky were hers.

"You feel safe here," he said. "Secure. You can control who comes through the gate or not."

"You said you'd done that. Kept out the shadow."

"I reinforced what was already there. But, I could feel the—the—" He searched for the right word, a word that didn't mean _magic_. "—the _boundary._ That worked because, somewhere inside you, you recognize this place as your own." He'd tried to sound comforting, reassuring. It didn't work.

"Then why don't I remember it?" Rhosyn said, frustrated. "You've told me about your life, about the city and the village you lived in before that. People walk under the sky. They know what flowers and grass are. The world is larger than a few rooms and hallways. If I'm part of that world, why don't I remember it?"

And that was the rub, wasn't it? He didn't know. But—"If this were my wor—the village where I come from, the people there would say it was a—a spell. But, magic doesn't exist," he added hastily, not sure if he was trying reassure himself more than her. "I don't know what this is."

Rhosyn's eyebrows quirked together as he almost said "world," but she didn't question his slip. "Magic," she repeated. "Unless this is just a dream. Perhaps, I just dream you. Or you just dream me."

"Perhaps," he said. The chip vanished then reappeared in his tea cup. It was possible. He thought she was real—no, he was _certain_ she was real. But, they met in dreams, and he forgot her the moment he woke. Only, it wasn't a dream, was it? "I can taste the honey in my tea. I've never done that in a dream."

"I don't remember honey," Rhosyn said. "But, this seems . . . wrong. The taste is too strong."

"Is it? To me, it tastes like honey gathered from heather. It was the favorite kind of honey of people in my village, but we could never sell it to Outlanders. The merchants going south wouldn't touch it."

Rhosyn relaxed a little. "So, you make the honey in my dreams? I suppose that's a good thing." She frowned again. "But, if this were your village, if there were such a thing as magic, what would be happening? You said they'd call it a spell. What kind of spell?"

"Rhosyn—"

"Please, I need to know."

"I—If this were my village, I would say you were under spell. I would say someone had used magic to make you forget." And the shadow was separate from that, he thought. There was a darkness that had been used against her before, she said, but it had been different.

The shadow—the shadow had only begun to appear when Rumplestiltskin found his way into her dreams.

No. He was not the one doing this to her. He _knew_ he wasn't the one doing it to her. He had felt the curse inside him, felt it hungry and wanting to eat while that thing gorged. And Rhosyn herself said the shadow had only changed. It _had_ been there before. So, it couldn't be him.

Could it?

"Something drew me into your dream. That shadow . . . I have dreamt something like that before. I know—I know stories. Enough to stop it at the gate. But, the shadow's not the spell. It may be sent by the thing that makes the spell. Or, maybe, like me, it was drawn in. I don't know. But, the spell is meant to hide your memories. I think—I think I brush up against it by coming here. That's why what I learn here stays hidden. Even from me. In my world—" He stopped.

"Your world," Rhosyn repeated. "You start to say that sometimes. Then, you stop yourself. Why? What do you mean by it?"

"Rhosyn—"

"Please, don't lie to me."

He looked down at his teacup, searching for words, answers. He had heard people in this world say there was a way to see futures in shapes of the damp leaves at the bottom of a cup of tea. One of the women who raised him said she could see patterns of things to come dropping dried petals into a bowl of water. But, he had never learned how. Whatever revelations a cup of tea in a dream could give remained hidden from him.

So, he gave her the truth. "I don't just come from another land. I come from another world. Like the ones in storybooks." Or the storybooks Miss Beaton had. But, unlike books on anatomy, Miss Beaton didn't seem to think anyone would find her reading them strange. "The land beyond the rainbow, or under the sunset, east of the sun and west of the moon." Rhosyn was looking at him very seriously. He paused to wonder if words like east and west and sunset meant anything to her. Had they watched a sunset here? But, he went on with his explanation. "I lived in a village, the one I told you of. It was in a land where spells were real—as were the monsters that cast them." And one monster in particular. "We lived in fear of . . . so many things." No, he couldn't tell her. The story of the Dark One stuck in his throat.

"We were at war with Ogres who killed our children and devoured our men. . . ." And how could he explain the truth? "I ran away from that world to this one. To save my son. To escape magic." The truth. Just not all the truth. Rumplestiltskin hesitated. He had to tell her more, even if he didn't know how to tell her the whole. "There was a curse. On me. That—that's how I know the shadow when I see it. But, Rhosyn, I _know_ that curse is . . . not gone. But, it's asleep. Powerless. There's no magic here for it to feed on."

Rhosyn contemplated her own teacup. Looking for answers? If so, she gave up. She looked up at him, honestly confused. "Why not tell me? You've told me about the city, about your son. Why not tell me about your home?"

"Ah, well, I didn't want you to think I'm mad." Or a demon. Or both.

"Mad?"

Why was he always assuming Rhosyn knew these things? "Insane," he said. "Sick in the head. Not knowing what's real and what isn't." Not knowing dreams from reality.

Rhosyn considered. "I . . . think I know that word. I've heard it. One of the guards—there was a new one. He was looking nervous. The people behind the other doors were screaming worse than usual—his partner said, 'What can you expect from a bunch of mad loonies?' He meant us, didn't he? Is that what mad is?"

"_They_ might be," Rumplestiltskin said, uneasily. He'd thought about this, of course. When he remembered Rhosyn at all. Miss Beaton had spoken of the asylum, and of the insane fairy doctor begging for someone to kill. . . . "There can be other reasons. Being locked up in a small cell, never allowed to see the sun, that would set most people screaming."

"But . . . am _I_ mad? Is that why I'm there?"

"I . . . think you're a seer, a person who can see bits of the past and future. I've heard of such things, even here. Magic may—may _help_ the gift, but I don't think it _makes _it. I met a seer in my world. She was stronger than any of the people I've heard of here, ones with second sight or just strong intuition. But . . . what she did wasn't like magic. Not the magic I've known." And he wasn't going to explain that, the difference between the memory of what he'd felt by the young seer and the memory of what it felt like to be the Dark One—or the memory of other magic's, like the Blue Star's. "A seer, a strong one, might seem mad in this world," he admitted. "Or maybe the people who locked you up know you're a seer. You said the poisons they give you make you see things. Maybe there are ways, even without magic, to make a seer have stronger visions. I don't know."

He remembered the seer's terrible scars. Her eyes had been cut out, but there had been eyes in the palms of her hands. The eyes that had been gouged out of her head? Or ones that had already been there, a birthmark for her kind? It might have been part of what made her a seer. Or it might have been done to make her gift more powerful. Another thing not to tell Rhosyn.

And, it didn't really have anything to do with her question, did it?

"I don't think anyone comes looking for people locked up in asylums. Or, if they do, if they found you, they wouldn't believe what you said. I think that's why you're there."

Rhosyn put down her teacup and wrapped her arms around herself, looking miserable. "Someone told me once, 'Do the brave thing, and bravery will follow.' But, what's the brave thing? What can I do? I don't want to be there. I—I think I want to be here. With you. When I'm awake. Is that even possible?"

"I don't know," Rumplestiltskin whispered.

He knew the rules of this world. He knew the rules of his own. There were distances to be kept between men and women, especially a woman he didn't know—not really. They'd never met outside of dreams. How could he say he knew a woman he only met in dreams? She might not even be in the same world—if she was even real and not a dream.

All the same, he put his cup down (the chip was back) and came around the small table to her side, putting his arms around her, drawing her over to the small sofa. "I don't know," he repeated. "When I tell you about the city, I want to give you something better to think of, something besides that place. But, I hope I'll say something to make you remember, that I'll talk about a person or place you know."

But, he always kept to pleasant things. He didn't tell her about going hungry or learning to hobble down the street, scanning the stones for a scrap of bread or gnawed apple core so he could grab it. He didn't tell her about learning to do it without breaking stride—a tricky skill for a lame man walking with a staff. He didn't talk about the darker streets, where he'd stepped over drunks lying in their own vomit and even, once or twice, dead men lying in their own blood.

Instead, he'd told about the doctor's valet dragging him off to a respectable tailor's and teaching him the right way to tie a cravat. He talked about wonders like the subscription library, where there were thousands of books for people to borrow who only paid a small fee. He talked about games of chess at the library reading room or in the park when he rested his leg while Miss Beaton and Bae got their exercise.

He wanted to run his hands through her hair but didn't dare add to his sins. Red hair, he thought. Seer's hair. What if that was part of the problem? Hiding things from a seer. Did that somehow strengthen the spell (except it couldn't be a spell, he knew it couldn't be a spell) that kept this secret?

What if Rhosyn, pleasant parlor or not, only knew the other side of the city? Chess and reading rooms, people who looked at his well-made jacket and respectable soldier's queue and decided he was a gentleman—it was as if Rumplestiltskin had fallen through a portal into yet another world.

What if it wasn't Rhosyn's world?

She was wearing her blue dress with its row of white buttons. He thought of her parlor again, with rose patterned paper and a comfortable sofa. This wasn't the world of another street beggar. Was it?

Then, he looked at himself. He walked on two good legs in these dreams—and the difference between the ragged mane of a beggar too poor to have it cut and an honorable soldier (retired) was the black ribbon that tied it back.

A woman of Miss Beaton's world wouldn't let a man take her to the sofa and sit down beside her, his arms around her, holding her close for comfort. Would she?

"If I remember," Rhosyn said, resting her face against his chest. "What then?"

Her hair smelled of smoke and sweat, things he guessed she smelled of in her cell, with its closed walls and rare baths. Reality slipping into dreams. "Then, the spell's broken. If it's broken, I'll remember you even when I'm awake. And I'll find you."

It was true. He knew it. The Dark One's curse didn't wake, but he felt its knowledge stirring in him.

_I should tell her,_ he thought. He should tell her about his curse and about seers with scarred eyes and hands, about what he had fled from that made dying of hunger a good trade if only his son hadn't been dying with him.

He'd promised her to keep the darkness out. What happened if he spoke of it here, in her refuge? Darkness was part of him. It had already stirred, giving him knowledge. If he spoke too freely, would the shadow that tried to eat her from inside be able to enter here?

Or, was he just being a coward, making excuses to keep silent?

He didn't know. But, he held her and spoke of pleasant things, hope and rescues. If she didn't believe it would happen, she managed to pretend.

When he could see she was growing tired, he let her curl up against him, her head in his lap, singing her the same lullaby he had sung when they first met.

When Rhosyn drifted off into true sleep—or whatever he should call the rest she entered when she was already dreaming—he knew what would happen. Because it always did.

The sun filled parlor dimmed and faded away. Rhosyn vanished along with the memory of her. Rumplestiltskin was left alone in a dark cell, watching a child be killed.

**Place Names: **

Londyn instead of London (from the Roman name, Londinium).

Skotland (and Skots) instead of Scotland.

Eireland and Eirish instead of Ireland and Irish (Eire being another name for Ireland).

Wales is Waels and the people are Waelsh, not Welsh.

Edinburg instead of Edinburgh.

**People and Things: **

Rumple was looking through Greis' Anatomy, not Gray's Anatomy.

Burk and Harre are based on an infamous pair of 19th century murderers, Burke and Hare, who killed people and sold the bodies to a medical school.

**And about Rumple's hair: **

In our world, after the Jacobite Rebellion in Scotland, Scotsmen (not, it seems, Scotswomen) were forbidden to wear tartans or traditional Scottish dress unless they were soldiers in Scottish regiments. In this world, long hair tied back in a queue was also forbidden for Scotsmen except for soldiers and the gentry. Since then, for a Skot in Londyn, it's become a sign of upper class respectability.

The real reason is that I was tweaking this Rumple's look to make him different in my head from Once's Rumple. I could imagine his hair longer, but shorter hair just didn't work. But, I couldn't picture the other men in this city with 18th century hairstyles.

If you put the two Rumples side by side, Once's Rumple has more presence and a more solid look. This Rumple is still too thin and it shows in his face. His hair has a whispier quality, too.

I think I have finished most of my info-dumping as of this chapter. In the next one, **Bad Things** will start happening.

**Please, tell me what you think!**


	7. One Morning

**Note: This takes place in an alternate universe version of Victorian London. The spellings of some places and people are different. Also, the times are a little different. Anything from any part of the 19th century may show up as needed. See the end for further details.**

**Oh, and looks like I lied about this being the chapter where everything gets bad. That's the next chapter (I had to break them up).**

X

It was too early in the morning for any of the servants to have brought warm wash water, but the pitcher by the wash basin was left full overnight. Rumplestiltskin, still shaking from his nightmare, poured the water into the bowl, icy cold as it was, and stripped off his nightshirt, trying to scrub away the polluted feeling of his dream.

_It was just a dream_, he told himself. Because the alternative was unthinkable. The alternative was that the murders he saw really happened. Maybe in this city. Maybe in this world. Maybe somewhere far beyond it. He had no way of finding out, no way of finding the children he saw being tortured and killed.

And, most sickening of all, the _feeling_ he had when he saw them die.

Oh, what he saw horrified him-he woke up weeping for the victims he was powerless to help.

But, he felt the curse deep inside him. Weak as it was, it stirred in its sleep, growling and hungry. When the children died, Rumplestiltskin felt as if food had been snatched out of his hands.

Perhaps he was going mad.

Perhaps he had been mad all along. His memories of magic and another world, maybe these were ravings of a diseased mind.

_What does that mean, to be mad?_

The question echoed in his mind, spoken by a familiar/unfamiliar voice.

Jumbled phrases went through his mind. Madness. A cell with dark walls. _Am I mad? _The unknown voice asked. _My world is dark rooms and narrow corridors. It's screams in the middle of the night. Is that what madness is?_

Rumplestiltskin splashed more cold water on his face, trying to drown out the voice. But, he couldn't get rid of the feeling of death and filth.

The light coming through the window was still a weak gray, but some of the servants might be stirring soon. They were expected to be able to step quietly into a room and start up a fire without ever waking the occupant. Rumplestiltskin supposed it would do no good for one of them to step in and see him naked and shivering. He grabbed a towel and began wiping the cold water off.

His arm stung where the towel touched the wound on his arm. He grimaced. He kept hitting the scab where the doctor had bled him when he first came here, pricking it open. It wasn't as if he were a young man any more, he told himself as he got out the bandages he'd taken to keeping near the wash basin. Wounds took their time healing, and there was no magic to hurry this one along, especially when he kept rubbing against it.

Rumplestiltskin pulled on his bathrobe. Unlike the suits and polished boots he wore each day, this was one he'd bought for himself from a secondhand shop. His clothing, after all, reflected on his employer. But, he could penny-pinch all he wanted to with his nightclothes. His wages seemed excessive—a hundred pounds a year. It was a larger fortune than he could have imagined just a few weeks ago—and for a job anyone could do. One of the medical students at the university would have already read the books the doctor had told him to familiarize himself with. If Rumplestiltskin had a good memory and a gift for organizing what he read, they weren't talents the doctor had known about when he hired him.

So, why hire him?

Because he felt sorry for him? Because he felt pity for the man who'd almost died on his threshold? It was a reasonable answer, but one Rumplestiltskin didn't believe.

Rumplestiltskin had seen the picture of the doctor's dead son. The young man reminded him of Bae. It wasn't his looks, although there was something similar about them. It was more in their expressions, if the artist was to be trusted. There were things Miss Beaton had said about her cousin, as well. He and Bae had shared a reckless courage and quick wit. Rumplestiltskin suspected that, had Benjamin Hastings been in Bae's place, he might have snuck into rich houses by the front door to steal their bread, too.

He also suspected the doctor had begun to see that resemblance. Dr. Hastings spoke fondly of Bae. He showed an interest in his education beyond letting the governess, Miss Grosvenor, teach him. He'd begun to talk about the opportunities a boy like Bae could have with proper schooling.

It all felt like a trap, as if the nightmares he had were closing in on him. So, Rumplestiltskin guarded every coin he'd been paid. His wildest extravagance was the fee he'd paid to join the lending library. It gave him a place to read and study outside of the house, as well as access to books the doctor didn't have—or might not have approved of (Wendy guarded her stash of novels as closely as Rumplestiltskin guarded his coins).

It also gave him a place to hear gossip, to get some idea of how people in this part of the city thought. It might as well have been a different world from the one Bae and he had lived in on the East Side.

And chess. There were a few players who met in the reading room, quietly playing while bystanders watched. When newcomers were allowed to try their luck, Rumplestiltskin had sat down and played. He was good at the game and rapidly becoming better. And he spoke to the people he played, who didn't have scorn in their voices or look at his leg with pity or disgust.

He could almost believe he was a man, an ordinary man who didn't dream of murder and blood or wake weeping for the children whose deaths he craved.

X

Smith knocked politely at the door, something lesser servants sometimes neglected to do. Of course, unlike the house maid going from room to room lighting fires, he expected to see a man wide awake on the other side.

Mr. Weaver had risen early. He always did after late nights with Dr. Hastings. The doctor, in Smith's view, sometimes pushed Mr. Weaver too hard. The man was recovering not just from a recent collapse, after all, but from months of trouble.

The two men conversed at other times, of course, and they had begun a tradition of a nightly chess game—after the first few games, the doctor had made a point of telling Mr. Weaver _not _to lose to him on purpose. Naturally, they discussed the work Mr. Weaver was doing for the doctor, organizing the writings of his brother-in-law (the doctor, Smith thought, had chosen better than he knew in hiring Mr. Weaver. He had a sharp mind and a remarkable ability to reconstruct a whole picture from just bits and pieces. He also listened to Miss Beaton, who had read her father's notebooks forward and back a dozen times as well as understanding how her father thought).

But, about once a week, the doctor would insist on a second game-or a third. The conversation would drag on. The doctor would press perhaps one glass too many on Mr. Weaver (who didn't drink, as a rule, but didn't care to offend Dr. Hastings either). Smith or Hughes, the Butler, would wind up helping him to his room.

What worried Smith was that Mr. Weaver never looked drunk. He looked pale and yellowish. Instead of a drinker's warm flush, his skin would be cold and clammy. His hands would be shaking too badly to hold his cane.

Then, when Smith went about his tasks in the morning, Mr. Weaver would always be up early, looking troubled and unwell.

Today, he had decided to look in on him. He smiled as if worry had nothing to do with his being there. "Ah, Mr. Weaver, I thought I heard you moving about. Are you well?"

Mr. Weaver wiped his brow. His hands were shaking again, Smith noted. "Quite well," he said. Perhaps realizing what an obvious lie that was, he added. "I slept a bit poorly."

"Yes, that happens to us all, sometimes," Smith said. "If you don't mind my saying, sir, you perhaps shouldn't let the doctor keep you up late. Dr. Hastings is a very energetic man. I dare say he lets himself forget you're still recovering from your indisposition."

Mr. Weaver frowned. He looked as though he were trying to remember something. "I suppose, Smith." He managed a wan smile. "You're not going to set Miss Beaton on me, are you? She's a good child, but she has the heart of a mother hen."

Smith laughed. "Indeed so, sir." He looked at Mr. Weaver's trembling hands. "If you don't consider it an impertinence, sir, could I assist you in your shaving, this morning? I'm up early myself, and Dr. Hastings won't my help for half an hour at least."

Mr. Weaver looked uncertain. Whatever his life before he came to Dr. Hastings, it had not included valets. He seemed to suspect that it was unusual for gentleman's gentleman to make such an offer to anyone but his master but was uncertain whether that obligated him to accept—or refuse.

Smith decided to press home his point. "If I may make so bold as to say so, sir, I think the razor might prove a bit more difficult this morning than usual." In fact, he might be a wonder if Mr. Weaver didn't slit his own throat.

Mr. Weaver seemed to consider that point, too. "If—if you insist, Smith."

"I do, sir. Now, just sit down in that chair. I'll take care of this." He had brought his shaving kit, and quickly busied himself. Mr. Weaver had already cleaned himself for the day—had, in fact, scrubbed himself raw—but there was still water in the pitcher by the washstand. Icy water, Smith noted. "I'm afraid the water's cold," he said, as he poured some of it into a cup and began mixing up a lather. "And we don't have time to wait for hot water. I dare say we'll make do."

"It's no matter," Mr. Weaver said. "I've made do with cold water often enough."

Or no water at all, Smith thought. He was not entirely sure what to make of Mr. Weaver. He suspected there was some truth to Miss Beaton's tale, though he knew a great deal of it was her invention, that Mr. Weaver had known better days before troubles washed him up on the shores of the East Side. He had a remarkable memory. Smith had made several tests of it. Mr. Weaver had remembered his entire recipe for boot polish after hearing him describe it only once—every ingredient, every amount, every exacting direction. Already, Smith suspected he had memorized the contents of a dozen medical books.

Smith wasn't fool enough to expect the world to be fair, but there was something about Mr. Weaver's fall to the depths that didn't add up.

Smith spoke cheerfully as he fixed the large cloth around Mr. Weaver's neck, to keep water and lather from splashing where it wasn't wanted, and set to shaving him. Smith had shaved a great many men in his time—a craft had to be practiced to be learned, after all. He knew the easy manner of men like the doctor who were used to someone like Smith taking care of it for them. They treated a man holding a sharp blade to their throats the same way they treated him as he helped them on with their boots or handed over a starched, white collar.

Then, there were the men who weren't used to it. Some of them tried to pretend they weren't nervous at all. Some glared at Smith to let him know he was a dead man if he tried anything. Some tried very hard to act as if this was something they dealt with every day.

Mr. Weaver held still in the quiet, resigned way of a man who had long ago learned not to fight when a knife was at his throat.

Smith finished. Before he left, he saw the bandages at the washstand and the bloodstains on the arm of Weaver's discarded nightshirt. "Would you like me to take that, sir?" Smith asked. "I know a good trick to get out those stains."

"If it's no trouble," Weaver said uncertainly. "Thank you, Smith."

"No trouble at all, sir," Smith said, smiling cheerfully. "Have a good day."

He had just enough time to take away the nightshirt and then start on preparations for the doctor's shave. Dr. Hastings was hardly what anyone would call a dandy. But, he believed that everything should be neat and tidy—and he was exacting in seeing that everything was up to that standard. Smith made sure the doctor's collars and cuffs were starched and dazzling white when they were handed over. The water for the doctor's shave was hot and fresh. Everything, at least when it was handed over, was as perfect as a first class valet could make it.

They were not anywhere near that standard when they were returned to Smith. Shirts were wrinkled, starched collars had drooped. As for his cuffs, one thing the doctor and his son had had in common was tendency to get their sleeves in their work. At least, at the hospital, the doctor always rolled up his sleeves or had a surgeon's smock over him. Smith never had to deal with worse than the smell all hospitals seemed to have working its way into an otherwise impeccable suit.

Except today. Today, when he picked up the doctor's cuffs from yesterday, Smith couldn't help noticing the blood along the edges.

X

**Place Names:**

Londyn instead of London (from the Roman name, Londinium).

Skotland (and Skots) instead of Scotland.

Eireland and Eirish instead of Ireland and Irish (Eire being another name for Ireland).

Wales is Waels and the people are Waelsh, not Welsh.

Edinburg instead of Edinburgh.

Americhan instead of American (it's a hard ch).


	8. Power in the Blood

Note: This takes place in an alternate universe version of Victorian London. The spellings of some places and people are different. Also, the times are a little different. Anything from any part of the 19th century may show up as needed. See the end for further details.

X

The asylum wards were like something out this world's drawings of hell.

Oh, not all of them. Several of the wards, the ones for the less violent, less dangerous patients, were clean and comfortable. In some cases, walls had been carefully fixed with padding so patients couldn't harm themselves by throwing themselves against them.

Then, Rumplestiltskin's guide had shown him the secure ward.

This was the ward where the howls came from. There were screams and moans as well as mad singing and laughter that sounded like it couldn't come from a human throat.

_(And why am I so afraid? _Rumplestiltskin asked himself. _Because I know how close I have come to the world they live in. Because I am not entirely sure I'm sane._ _What would Dr. Hastings say if I told him I was once a cursed imp with gold scales and serpent's eyes? That I laughed and made a joke when my son saw our maid's blood on my feet?)_

These patients were behind heavily fortified, steel doors. They had small openings in the bottom where metal plate could be unlocked and pushed aside and a bowl of food pushed through. "Can't always use that," his guide, who had been mute up till then, told him. "A lot of them's chained. We have to go in, feed that lot." He showed Rumplestiltskin another metal plate at about eye level. "Always check on them first. Take a look."

Rumplestiltskin lifted the plate. Unlike the other, this one wasn't locked. But, unlike the one below, this one opened on a small, heavily barred window. He looked inside.

"I was told they were no longer kept naked," Rumplestiltskin said, surprised at how disinterested his voice sounded. The chains had not surprise him. Not when he saw the demons in the eyes looking back at him.

_At least mine was better controlled._

His guide thought long and hard. "Too much trouble," he said. "These ones are violent." He thought about it some more. "''Sides, can't hang 'emselves if they got nothing to make a rope with." Another long pause. "Dr. Hastings' orders."

He could not argue with that.

The guide applied more mental effort. "Want to see the women?"

X

Matters had come to a head as Rumplestiltskin was compiling notes about Denis Cashel, the Eirish murderer, the fairy doctor Miss Beaton had told him about that first day when he had woken up in the blue room.

He went to the lending library for some of his information. They kept many of the old newspapers, though they had no materials to tell him were the articles he needed would be. Instead, he asked Miss Beaton and the servants what they remembered of the case and took the dates they remembered to start his investigation. It took a great deal of work—articles he needed were often weeks apart—but he began to make what sense he could out of such a senseless crime.

Denis Cashel was likely not the name he'd been born with. The man told many different stories about his past—his family were ancient nobles, poor slaves, he was a foundling child with no idea who his kin were—but usually claimed his family had otherworldly blood.

Rumplestiltskin felt something cold creep down his back when he read that. But, there was never, even in the most outlandish tales Cashel told, a hint that he himself was otherworldly—and, with the raving fits Dr. Beaton described, the man would hardly have kept such a secret. According to him, his family was kin to what the Eirish called "the Folk from Under the Hill," the fairies, the people of the Otherworld. That, he claimed was where their gift for magic came from.

Magic. Rumplestiltskin found that claim more believable than most who'd heard it, and even he wasn't sure what to make of Cashel. He called some things "magic" that sounded like nothing more than herbal remedies, the kind Rumplestiltskin's own people made and never thought of calling them magical—and if they hadn't known the difference, who would? These were the "folk remedies" Miss Beaton mentioned, with a few rhymes chanted over them. The rhymes, at least, might do some good. If there had been magic in this world. More likely, they wouldn't. They looked weak and puny compared to ones Rumplestiltskin knew. Even Cashel admitted they failed at least as often as they worked.

Unless certain steps were taken. To increase their power.

Rumplestiltskin found details in Dr. Beaton's notes.

"_Most who try magic are right fools,"_ Dr. Beaton quoted Cashel as saying. _"It's the blood that makes the difference, not the charm. The charm'll let you raise power, but what's the point if you've not got blood to hold it with?"_

Cashel claimed there were different rituals_. "And most of them wouldn't be anything to strike fear in honest folk," _Cashel said. _"But, I found early where my gift lay, and that's what I followed."_

_I found early where my gift lay, and that's what I followed._ Rumplestiltskin remembered the rush of power he had felt when the Dark Curse came to him. It wasn't just that it was so _easy_—easy to kill the men who threatened his son, who'd humiliated him, easy to drive back the Ogres who had been killing their people for a generation—easy to do whatever he wanted.

It was the wonderful feeling of _being_ the Dark One.

Or what had seemed wonderful then. Now, when he remembered it, it was a nightmare (even if, in his true nightmares, he found himself hungering for that power all over again, no matter what the cost).

_I believe him_, Dr. Beaton had written. _Though he changes much else, this part of his tale always remains the same. He speaks briefly of knowing "other ways" but said they weren't for him. His madness began with killing animals and (I believe) torturing them. He claimed this increased the power he could draw on and the effectiveness of his spells. In time, however, this was not enough for him. The first man he killed was a drunken beggar whose absence, he said, was not noticed. _

_If he is to be believed—and there is much in his story that smacks of the incredible—he committed many murders before discovering the "best" results came from the killing of young children and maidens. He gave the opinion that it was because both were full of life and possibility and that it was this energy that he changed into "magic."_

_I must take leave to doubt some part of this tale. From the discoveries made after his involvement in the death of the unfortunate Mrs. O'Reilly, the path he followed may not have been so bloody. In the tales that can be proved, he travelled about till he found a family with serious illness in the house. He would then undertake to "cure" it, convincing the family the afflicted child or woman had, in fact, been stolen away by the "Folk Under the Hill," eventually leading to the desperate kinsfolk willingly inflicting the most grievous of tortures on their own flesh and blood. When death resulted, he would claim some members of the family were responsible for the exorcism going awry and depart, leaving them to hush up the matter rather than make their own crimes public. I found few instances where he the murders might have been committed by his own hand._

Rumplestiltskin wondered. The accounts in the newspapers had included lurid descriptions of some of the deaths Cashel had claimed to cause. Eireland had been beset by troubles for many years. There were some cases of missing persons that might have been laid at his door.

Rumplestiltskin could also see a pattern that Dr. Beaton, a man of this world, might have missed. Cashel's early murders, by his own account, were done with as much secrecy as possible. He chose victims who wouldn't be missed, waiting until he was absolutely certain no one would connect him with the crimes he was about to commit.

But, as time went by, he felt the need for more and more power, and he needed it more and more often.

Hence, the families. Using them was a bigger risk, but it meant he didn't have to wait till he'd found a drunk or a tramp he could be certain wouldn't be missed. He also, from the sound of it, raised power not just from the death but from whatever dark forces were released when a loving family murdered one of their own.

Even Dr. Beaton, as unaware of magic as he was, seemed to understand that. He wrote—

_The nature of his madness was such that these killings and the sense of power they gave him—I mean the power of life and death and the power he exercised over the unfortunates who gave heed to his advice—were like an addiction to him, as much as spirituous drinks are to the drunkard or tincture of poppy may become for the opium eaters. At times, Cashel would be quite rational and speak in a very civilized manner concerning the simpler, more wholesome remedies he said had been handed down from more creditable members of his family. I have myself experimented with some of these mixtures and found them efficacious— without, I hasten to add, resort to any charms or spells muttered over them._

_At other times, all rationality vanished from Cashel and he would howl like a damned soul enduring the torments of hell. When this happened, he would beg me to provide him with just one soul to torture and kill. He describes in detail everything he wishes to do to his victims, as if he believes I will share in his feelings and be the more easily tempted to comply with his wishes._

Of course, it became clear that Rumplestiltskin would need to go to the hospital. He had been there before, looking through various departments records. The facility was just as Miss Beaton described it. There were large, open windows. It was clean and well-managed. The patients, paying ones and charity patients alike, were treated with dignity and consideration.

In some cases, he only needed to clarify a few things Dr. Beaton had jotted down. For example, who was Mrs. Roberts and what was the "rather humorous" illness she had been treated for? What useful service had she rendered? As it turned out, Mrs. Roberts had once been a nurse until a modest inheritance had raised to the ranks of a respectable woman of property. She was now a hypochondriac. She came in every fortnight or so claiming to be dying of a different illness. In one case, her list of imaginary symptoms had matched those of a truly ill patient, resulting in a correct diagnosis. Dr. Beaton had suggested to the head matron that perhaps Mrs. Roberts true ailment was boredom and that allowing her to help at the hospital—volunteering to help the less fortunate being a most dignified task for a respectable woman—might stop her from coming in as a patient.

But, he had been afraid to go near the asylum. It was a later entry that let him know he would have to go there, sooner or later.

_I have been arguing with Nathan, again. He fears the scandal if it should ever be known I would use techniques learned from a madman. I showed him the results of my use of Cashel's remedies. The mixture of St. John's Wort has been especially efficacious in cases of severe melancholia. In the end, he accepted my challenge to _test_ these remedies as becomes a scientific mind rather than dismiss them out of hand._

Yes, that was the Dr. Hastings Rumplestiltskin knew. Rumplestiltskin suspected the sole reason the doctor had accepted the story that Rumplestiltskin and Bae were of a class close to his own was because Bae had proved unusually intelligent and Rumplestiltskin could beat him at chess. It was easier than believing a poor beggar from the East Side could do these things.

But, he valued science above everything else. Rationality, reason, the powers of the mind over passion and (at least in some cases) prejudice.

_Nathan has also insisted Cashel be moved to the special ward, where he can be kept more securely. I cannot argue with him. Although there are times Cashel can seem as sane and charming as any gentleman met strolling in the park, there are others when he is terrifying. Nathan also wishes me to distance myself from Cashel's treatment. He may well be right. I do not know if it is wholly selfish of me, for I feel I have learned all Cashel's secrets, as well as having done all I can for his condition. Whatever the source of his madness, he does not improve. _

In the notebooks in the house, Dr. Beaton wrote mainly of the medicines and treatments he learned _from_ Cashel. His notes on his treatment for the man were vague and incomplete at best. Then, there was yet another entry that clinched matters.

It was in Dr. Beaton's handwriting, but it was jagged and the ink blotted. It had clearly been written in a rush. In two spots, the doctor had actually torn through the page in his angry haste.

_Nathan can do what he likes with Cashel. I mentioned my daughter in passing to the murderer. He had been calm up until then, with no sign of one of his fits coming on. I forgot myself and spoke to him as though he were what he seemed, a civilized gentleman._

_He fell into one of his fits and began to describe in the crudest language what he wished to do to Wendy, should she ever fall into his hands. I knew, of course, what came to the young women who met that devil in the past, just as I had heard him speak in such crude terms before. But, it had never hit me in such a way till then. I left before I failed to restrain myself. I have warned Nathan to keep him out of my way or I will not be responsible._

Had this one conversation made all Cashel's past crimes and ravings suddenly real? Or had Dr. Beaton been one of those quiet men who maintained calm in the face of all troubles—until they couldn't?

Rumplestiltskin had grown so used to poverty and the disdain and abuse of everyone in his village as to hardly notice them—until the day his son was threatened and years of anger and desperation boiled over.

He went to the hospital. There was a desk at the front where he could as directions. The young man there, one of the students at the university, recognized Rumplestiltskin and gave him directions. Though the hospital was relatively new, it had already begun to resemble a madman's maze (Miss Beaton, in a joke that had needed some explaining, said she always thought she should take a ball of thread and a large sword, in case she met a minotaur when she was there). Still, Rumplestiltskin kept track of the turns and twists and eventually reached his destination.

A nurse, who might have been mistaken for a battle-goddess, looked up from her desk and still managed to give the impression she was looking down at him. Perhaps it was the effect of the two large, blond curls arching over her face like castle battlements or the turret-like peak of her starched, white hat perched above it all. Rumplestiltskin had the panicked thought he should have brought an offering to lay at her alter and avert her wrath—although he had no idea what the appropriate offering was. A red rose to show his devotion? A cup of tea?

"Yes?" she asked.

"I'm Mr. Weaver," he said, presenting a letter or authorization the doctor had given him. "I work for Dr. Hastings. Could I see any files on Denis Cashel? I'm putting together some notes for him."

Without actually showing any expression, she managed to give the impression she found this extremely suspicious indeed. However, she did not actually have an objection. "Just a moment." She looked around. "Lucas? If you would be so kind as to help Mr. . . . Weaver, you said your name was? He'll be needing the files on Denis Cashel. Dr. Hastings orders."

Lucas was a large, burly man. The sort Rumplestiltskin imagined was necessary to deal with uncooperative patients. His face seemed oddly blank. He led Rumplestiltskin to a certain file cabinet, searched for a moment, and brought out a very large file. Then, he pointed to another desk. Apparently, Rumplestiltskin was supposed to sit down and start reading there.

He did. There were more details on Cashel's madness and crimes. There were reports written by police and hospital workers Rumplestiltskin didn't know, as well as notes from Dr. Beaton and Dr. Hastings. Rumplestiltskin carefully wrote out the answers to the questions he'd had along with other, new information.

In the background, he heard screams and moans. Occasionally there were bursts of mad laughter or song. There was something at one point that didn't even sound human.

He realized the nurse, as stone faced as before, was managing to look at him with condescension. "You've never been in this section before, have you?" she asked.

"No," Rumplestiltskin admitted.

"I thought not. Did you know, there was a time when they would charge men and women to tour Bedlam, the original madhouse?"

"N-no. I hadn't."

"Do you want to see it?" She looked at him scornfully, waiting for him to back down. She was bored, he thought. Perhaps she tortured the patients in her spare time and his presence interfered with that. Or maybe she was just enjoying the chance to make him turn coward and admit he had no desire to go near those rooms.

He remembered that, in this world, he was now gentleman, albeit one of limited means, a retired soldier, not the village coward. And he outranked her. Rumplestiltskin matched her cool aloofness. "I'm sorry," he said with just enough mockery that she would know it was an intended insult. "I didn't bring coins for your tour."

The battle-goddess nurse smiled back, glad he was up and fighting. "Oh, no need for that. Not for a friend of Dr. Hastings."

"I haven't time—"

"You're the one working on Dr. Beaton's papers, aren't you? You can hardly do them justice if you don't even know what the wards are like. Lucas—" she called to the large, quiet man. "Let Mr. Weaver see the wards. Be sure not to leave anything out.

X

There were several other entries whose connection to Cashel he didn't see, not till it was too late.

_Nathan has been going over many of my notes since Benjamin was returned to us. He is dealing with this troubled time by throwing himself into his work. He says it is in hopes of finding a cure that can be used for his son, but I think it is just the excuse to avoid a meeting he fears. Though I understand what he is afraid of, I wish he would spend the little time left with Benjamin, no matter how things turn out between them. I can only hope they make their peace before the end._

Rumplestiltskin read these because he was obligated to. He skimmed them over, looking for any mention of patients or medicine, trying not to think about the private pain they discussed. When the entries did touch on medicine, he only made a quick note to find Dr. Hastings' files on his son's treatment.

_Nathan's efforts have amazed me. Benjamin's improvement is a miracle of modern science. Nathan still spends far too long at hospital, especially the asylum, though he speaks little of it. I suspect pride makes him unwilling to confide in me but I believe certain "folk remedies" have played a part. He will not admit this to me, even now. Still, if I have played some small part in pointing him in the way of this miracle, his accomplishment is beyond anything I could have dreamed._

There was no mention of family for several more pages. Then, a quickly jotted note appeared at the end of a discussion of the controversy on the connection between water quality and disease.

_Benjamin, at my urging, is trying to bridge the gap between himself and his father. Nathan, despite all he has done for his son, barely seems to tear himself away from work._

On the next page, a new entry summarized the result.

_Benjamin suffered a collapse at hospital today after going there to see his father. Nathan will say nothing except that Benjamin suffered a cataleptic fit, but I suspect they were quarreled. Nathan wished to be by his side, but Benjamin grew so disturbed and restless at his presence, he was forced to leave. I remained. Benjamin made several attempts to speak to me, but I was unable to understand anything except his anger at his father._

_He passed away at midnight._

A full, thirty pages later—

_Nathan has thrown himself into what he calls "aetheric studies" since Benjamin's passing. I have heard he attends séances—though he denounces most of them as pure frauds—as well as other, occult gatherings. As it has not interfered with his work, I remain uncertain how to address it. Indeed, if this is how he grieves for his son, I might do more harm than good by putting a stop to it. Yet, there is something about this obsession that disturbs me._

_We spoke at length the other day concerning Cashel and other incidents of supposed magic. Nathan opined that there may be something to Cashel's claim of such gifts following certain bloodlines. He pointed out how, in our own lands, it is the Celtic races who not only seem to show a strong belief in such tales but who are most often reputed to have mystical gifts, such as second sight. I made a joking reference to Miss Thomas' second sight. She is a Waelshwoman, after all, one of the Celtic tribes Nathan spoke of. _

_Rather than take it as a joke, Nathan began to question me quite closely concerning her supposed ability and any examples of it I had seen. While Miss Thomas admits there were those in her home village who thought she had the sight, she has never claimed more than a strong streak of intuition. I would hardly call anything she has done more than that. Indeed, the most "psychic" moment she had was when I told her of my attempts to mend the rift between father and son. She became troubled and told me she did not think it wise to encourage Benjamin to visit his father at hospital. When I asked why, she could only say that, for a man as obsessed with work as Dr. Hastings so often is, it seemed a dangerous spot for a reconciliation. I remember her use of the word "dangerous," which struck me as so odd at the time—but so prescient given how matters turned out._

_I later found Nathan trying to question Miss Thomas and causing her much distress. I told him it was ungentlemanly behavior and both unlike and unworthy of him. He became aware that he had overstepped himself and apologized profusely, but Miss Thomas has asked me to give her warning when Dr. Hastings comes to visit in the future._

_This makes me wonder if I should not check on Cashel's treatment, which I have left wholly in Nathan's hands. His case, I fear, is quite hopeless. I agreed with Nathan when he said the best we could do was confine him in circumstances where he would be comfortable but unable to work harm on others. I hardly know what I suspect, except Cashel was the one name Nathan made specific reference to when he spoke of those who might truly have such gifts. _

It was the last entry in his books.

X

"Want to see the women?" Rumplestiltskin's guide asked.

The man's face remained blank, eerily blank. He didn't make the offer like one of the men standing outside the bawdy houses in the East Side. He didn't even sound like the man who sold roasted peanuts at the zoo, pointing out where the lions were (Miss Beaton, finding out Bae had never been to the zoo, had insisted Rumplestiltskin take him there), a gleam at the wonders of the world in his eye. Lucas might have been pointing out a clod of dirt.

Rumplestiltskin, almost against his will, had nodded.

Lucas took him down other corridors. Many, like those in the men's wards, seemed pleasant enough. The patients acted oddly or called out nonsense in strange voices, but he saw no signs of mistreatment.

Till they reached the secure ward.

Reluctantly, Rumplestiltskin began walking towards one of the metal plates, knowing he was expected to lift it and look inside. He began to reach out for the one nearest to him, when he heard a voice.

He didn't know how he could hear this one voice clearly over the cacophony of screams and laughter and a dozen other sounds. But, he did. It was a woman singing.

"_And as the world comes to an end  
I'll be here to hold your hand  
'Cause you're my king and I'm your lionheart.  
A lionheart"_

A song from his world, a dark lullaby for a land where Ogres and dragons hunted children. A song he had sung to Bae. A song no one in this world could know.

He lifted the plate.

"They's got clothes," Lucas said behind him. "Wouldn't be decent. Doctor's orders."

Rumplestiltskin ignored this bit of evidence that not all the madness in this world was on the other side of locked doors, as if more were needed. He looked at the woman inside.

She wore a shapeless, faded dress of blue. She wasn't one of the ones who were chained. What light there was came from a window of frosted glass. More bars where in front of it (did they worry about prisoner's escaping? Or were, when they were afraid men might use their clothes to make a noose, were they afraid of what could be done with broken glass?). The woman sat on a narrow cot, rocking herself back and forth as she sang. He hair fell around her in a tangle of red curls. Rumplestiltskin remembered the seer, the one who had warned him to protect Bae all those years ago.

She looked up at him. Eyes, sapphire blue, met his.

_He knew those eyes_.

They should be bright, inquisitive, eyes that looked at the world and demanded to know why it was a mystery to her, not drugged and empty.

_Other people have sun and sky._

Rhosyn. _Rhosyn._

Rhosyn looked at him, her eyes widening. She put her hands to her mouth and began to scream.

X

Rumplestiltskin had hurried out of the asylum, Rhosyn's screams echoing in his mind.

"_The shadow—It's you—It was always you—Get away from me! Get away!"_

If the nurse sneered at him, if Lucas' slow moving brain tried to make sense of what happened, he didn't know and he didn't care. He fled.

The shadow.

It was him.

_Blood._

His arm bled. The wound never fully healed. Rhosyn said they fed her blood, that it made her see things.

Dr. Hastings had listened to his brother-in-law lecture him on the usefulness of folk remedies, ones people considered magical. He had had shown him how some of them actually worked.

Dr. Beaton had been speaking of medicines, mixtures of herbs, or treatments like treating patients with kindness and consideration, listening to their stories (deluded or not).

But, Dr. Hastings' son had returned from war, broken and dying. He had spent all his time, desperately researching a way to save Benjamin Hastings life.

Denis Cashel had claimed to be able to work cures with magic, magic that could be raised through murder. Denis Cashel, who had been Dr. Hastings patient.

Rumplestiltskin had sometimes wondered if anyone in this world would notice when he died. He had stepped over the dead bodies of nameless men who had killed each other in drunken brawls outside of pubs.

Dr. Hastings ran a charity hospital. The sick and the dying were brought to him, people without families or kin. Miss Beaton had said how many of them could not afford to even bury their dead, that they were grateful when the hospital took care of matters for them.

How easy to would it be for Dr. Hastings to kill people with no one the wiser?

He remembered the news article, _death by neglect. _Dr. Hastings ruled on the cause of death in courts of law. It was perfect.

His son had begun to recover. A miracle, Dr. Beaton had called it.

As if magic were keeping him alive.

Till Benjamin went to hospital when his father wasn't expecting him. Till Benjamin saw something that made him spend his last breath trying to warn his uncle against his father.

His father who had become obsessed with magic involving raising the dead—that was what a séance was, after all, wasn't it?—after his son died.

If Benjamin had surprised his father in the midst of murder? If he had destroyed whatever magic Dr. Hastings was using to sustain Benjamin's life?

(_A poorly done spell, _Rumplestiltskin critiqued. _One based on feeding life energy to the man who was dying instead of simply healing his wounds. Dr. Hastings knowledge of magic wasn't as good as he might think)_

Till Dr. Beaton had grown suspicious. And died.

Denis Cashel had died, too, not long after that. A suicide, according to the papers Rumplestiltskin had read.

Dr. Hastings had changed the rules not long after that. The dangerous patients, the men in the secure ward, were kept naked to reduce their chances of taking their own lives.

Blood. Rhosyn said they fed her blood. But, then it stopped.

Rumplestiltskin remembered some of what he'd read in the chemistry books. A catalyzing agent, wasn't that what they called it? Something that caused a reaction to occur.

The right blood was needed for magic. The deaths, those created a force or released it so it could be gathered. But, in this world, magic was like—was like—he thought of the story he had read, that Americhan who had done an experiment with lightning and a kite. Elektricity, that's what he'd called it. Certain materials conducted it. Others didn't. In this world, magic without a—a catalyst, a conductor, whatever it was his blood acted as, it was powerless, like lightning in a glass jar.

He understood the nightmares, now. The shadow—its power came from him. But, he couldn't touch it. That's what Hastings accessed in his blood. That's why it felt separate from him even while it didn't.

When he'd first dreamed of Rhosyn, he'd been unconscious during the day. He was able to find her in his dreams when the drug—the poison was being given to her. Since then, he only reached her at night, long after it had been forced down her. It was why he hadn't seen the shadow since.

But, Rhosyn had the sight. In dreams, he'd been able to hide the curse from her—or, was his dreaming self somehow free from it? Or maybe the poison—poison made with _his blood_—was stronger when they met in the flesh.

The reason hardly mattered. Rhosyn had seen him and recognized him for the demon he was.

But, the murders—whether he saw them as they happened or not, those were real, too. He saw them because he was linked to them. Dr. Hastings killed to raise the power he needed, then bound Rumplestiltskin's blood to their deaths.

They were real. All those deaths, women and children. Sweet, merciful gods, they were real.

He had to get Bae.

He flagged down a hackney coach and told the driver to go as fast as possible. He raced into the house, almost running over Smith.

The valet looked at him in concern. "Mr. Weaver? What's wrong?"

"Bae," Rumplestiltskin said. "Where's Bae? I need to speak with him."

"Upstairs in the schoolroom. Has something happened?"

Up four flights of stairs. "There's been an emergency. Please, fetch him for me. There's no time to waste."

Smith wanted to know more, but he was a gentleman's gentleman. He knew when to ask questions and when not to. He nodded and raced up the stairs.

Wendy chose that moment to come in from the garden. "Mr. Weaver, is something wrong?"

Rumplestiltskin bit back on a laugh that would have been as inhuman as any in the asylum. "Miss Beaton," he asked, trying to sound sane. "Your old governess, Miss Thomas, your uncle sent her away after your father died?"

"Yes, he thought I needed someone with greater propriety. And who didn't know Latin, Greek, or calculus."

"Yes, I know this is an odd question but, tell me, what color was her hair?"

"Mr. Weaver?"

"Please, Miss Beaton. It's important."

"Red. Why—"

"And her name? Her first name?"

"Rhosyn. It's Waelsh, you know. For rose. Rhosyn Belinda Thomas. But, why—"

The door behind Rumplestiltskin opened. Dr. Hastings stood there. "Wendy. Go to your room."

Rumplestiltskin felt the magic rolling past him. Wendy's eyes went oddly blank. Like Lucas, Rumplestiltskin thought. She turned and went upstairs without a word.

That wouldn't work on Rumplestiltskin.

"Dr. Hastings," Rumplestiltskin said. "You're back early today. I hope nothing's wrong?"

"I heard you were at the hospital," Dr. Hastings said. "And there was some unpleasantness. I hope you weren't disturbed by it? The patients in the secure ward are . . . peculiar to say the least."

"A young woman began screaming I was a monster. If I understood her correctly. It was . . . disturbing. To say the least."

"Yes, I imagine so. The Nurse Fletcher shouldn't have troubled you with that. She's an efficient woman but . . . well, let me be honest, she's malicious at times."

"So, I saw." Dr. Hastings stood between him and the door. Rumplestiltskin toyed with the idea of pretending nothing was wrong—nothing beyond his nerves being shaken by a meeting with a madwoman. But, there was a deep certainty inside of him. This was the time to leave. There would be no second chance.

"Dr. Hastings, I . . . regret that I can no longer remain in your employ. Bae and I will be leaving. Now." He braced himself. He wasn't certain what would happen if Hastings threw magic at him—but it would not be what Hastings expected. That power was _his_, bound to him by his curse and his blood.

There was a sense of magic, but it wasn't aimed at him. Rumplestiltskin frowned. Had Hastings attempted something? Or had he begun a spell and changed his mind?

He'd barely known how to weave a healing spell. His teacher in magic was mad killer. Back home, there were untrained children who could beat him in a battle of spells.

"I don't suppose a raise in pay would change your mind?"

"I don't suppose it would, no."

"Mr. Weaver, have you thought this through? If there are . . . difficulties with your duties, I'm sure we can come to some arrangement. And, we must think about what's best for Bae. He's such a bright boy. I'm more than willing to fund his education. You'd be surprised at the influence I have. I could get him into some of the best schools in the land."

Rumplestiltskin had a horrible, nightmare vision of his son growing up under the influence of this murderer. Dear gods above, he knew the crimes he'd committed, the deaths that were on his conscience—but, monstrous as he'd been, there'd been more reason than raising power on a pile of corpses.

And, may the gods bear witness, he'd been willing to pay with his life to set it right. And Bae knew it. Whatever legacy he left his son, it was better than this.

"Not good enough, Doctor. As soon as Bae comes down those stairs, we're leaving and we will not be coming back."

He heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he saw Smith. He was alone, and his eyes were blank and empty.

Rumplestiltskin balanced on his good leg, lifting his cane as Smith leapt at him. The doctor tackled him from behind.

"Bae!" Rumplestiltskin put all the force he could into that yell, hitting Smith hard in the gut. His voice had to travel up four flights of stairs, he thought, despairing. "Bae, get out of here! Run! Bae—"

He recognized the glass device with its metal parts that flashed in the doctor's hand. A recent invention, the hypodermic needle, it was covered in some of the books he'd read. He tried to twist free, to smash it, as it plunged into his arm and the world went dark.

X

Place Names:

Londyn instead of London (from the Roman name, Londinium).

Skotland (and Skots) instead of Scotland.

Eireland and Eirish instead of Ireland and Irish (Eire being another name for Ireland).

Wales is Waels and the people are Waelsh, not Welsh.

Edinburg instead of Edinburgh.

Americhan instead of American (it's a hard ch).

**People and Things:**

The Evil Nurse in the Asylum in Once Upon a Time is based on the evil nurse from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. In the movie, she's played by Louise Fletcher. Hence, Nurse Fletcher's name.

In this period in our world, nurses in England were addressed as "Sister" (some still are, though it's less common than it used to be), but I thought Dr. Hastings coming in and talking about Sister Fletcher might be confusing for some people.


	9. End Book 1, Beginning Book II

**And Break:**

The last chapter ends **Book I, The Abyss**. While I think of this next part as **Book II**, I'm keeping them together for convenience sake—and so no one reading Book I thinks I've abandoned the story and no one picking up Book II will be lost at sea.

However, Book II will introduce some other characters from the regular series as well as (hopefully) building on Book I.

So, here comes **Londyn Bridge: Refuge.**

**A Note on Mental Illness:**

While I've done some historical reading on how mental illness was treated in the 19th century, I wanted to add some points that may not be clear in the story.

Mental illnesses suffer from the double burden of the illness itself and from the stereotypes about them. The 19th century saw major reforms in how the mentally ill were treated. There were also successes, especially with treatments that saw the patients as people and not monsters.

That said, there were still many conditions that couldn't be treated, although patients still began to benefit from better conditions and treatment.

Dr. Beaton in the story was a reformer. He emphasized humane treatment. I don't know if Freud doesn't yet exist in this world or if psychoanalysis just hasn't had much impact in Londyn, but Beaton had a mind that focused more on medicinal treatments. In the cases of patients who were incurable in his time, he still emphasized quality of life, trying to keep them comfortable and safe.

Hastings has always been more of an organizer. Except for the being evil thing, he's a very good administrator. However, he sees patients as things to be managed. In the case of mentally ill patients deemed incurable, he's interested in managing them effectively. He doesn't see quality of life as something they can appreciate. So, while Dr. Beaton, if a patient had to be restrained, would try to balance dignity and lack of physical injury with the safety of others, Hastings just gets out the chains. But, in many ways, that's his attitude towards any illness.

Since I just got through a stack of articles on how representing mental hospitals as horror shows creates all sorts of difficulties for the mentally ill and their families, I want to emphasize that Dr. Hastings asylum is a thing of the distant past and one that was the subject of major reforms even in his own time.


	10. Refuge: Lost

**Note**: I was told some of my spellings were confusing. The odd place names are because this takes place in an alternate universe (the Bae who became Neal Cassady went to the real Victorian London. This is another universe's version). Spellings and dates of historic events will vary. Anything from any part of the century may show up as needed. See the end for further details.

X

_Rumplestiltskin, sitting in his dark cage, shifted in his chains. He could feel the monster inside of him, growling like a hungry beast. He thought this world had killed it or beaten it down. He'd thought it was trapped and tamed. He was wrong._

_That was what it told himself when he could feel hope dying. The doctor thought he was trapped. He was wrong. A moment would come. Hastings or the guards would be careless, the chains would be broken, and he would break free._

_When despair threatened to drown him, that was what he clung to. When he saw the children die and was helpless to do more than learn their names, that was what he whispered to himself alone in the dark: hold on, wait, the time will come._

_And, then, he would make them pay._

X

Bae took the key he had stolen and let himself into the empty house. The furniture that hadn't been taken away was covered with old sheets, to keep off the dust. Most of the smaller, valuable items had been taken elsewhere or packed away, but there was a beautiful mirror still hanging in the parlor. It was covered with crepe and had been since before the house was closed down, a sign of mourning in this country, like the black wreathe still hanging on the front door. No one had been by to remove it since the house was abandoned.

There was no sound except Bae's footsteps, echoing through the empty rooms as he went upstairs. He found the nursery and the large window Wendy had told him about. He sat on the floor, by the window seat but not on it, where no one passing in the street outside would see him. He drew up his knees and folded his arms across them, resting his head against them.

_Papa. . . ._

Dr. Hastings had called him into the library and sat him down. There'd been an accident, he said. It would have been quick, he said. Likely, Papa had never felt anything. . . .

Bae couldn't remember what Dr. Hastings had said after that. His words had faded into a dull, distant roar.

Papa was dead.

It was Bae's fault.

If they had just stayed in their world, Papa would be alive. It was because of him they had come here. Papa had promised, if Bae found a way to break the curse, he would do it.

No, that wasn't right. Papa had said the only way to end his curse was to kill him. He had promised Bae, if he found a way to break it that wouldn't kill him, he would do it.

And Bae had lied. He hadn't known he was lying, but he lied all the same. He'd brought Papa to this world to end his curse, and this world had killed him.

Bae thought they were safe when the doctor took them in, when he gave Papa a job. They had a home, one with fires in every grate and warm blankets on the beds, one where they had plenty of food and clean clothes. More than that, they had people who knew them, people who would _care_ if something happened to them—people who could _do _something about it if anything happened to them.

Bae had thought they were safe at last.

So, when the doctor said he had had to send Papa on journey to take care of some business for him, Bae hadn't worried, not really. He'd wanted Papa back. He might not be haunted by the fear of losing Papa, the way he was when they first came to this world—when he watched Papa grow thinner and weaker each passing day and saw men younger and stronger than Papa dead in the back streets—but they hadn't been separated for more than half a day in this world before the doctor sent him away.

That's what Bae had told himself. He wasn't worried. He wasn't afraid.

Papa was dead just the same.

Weeks ago, when he first met Wendy, she had told him about her old home while her uncle tended Papa. She'd told the doctor she knew Bae, after all, and she had to make sure he knew enough not to be caught in a lie if Dr. Hastings questioned him. She'd made sure he knew her old address and what part of the city it was in. Later, she'd told him how her uncle meant to rent it out eventually but hadn't found a tenant for it.

Wendy even showed him the key she still kept. Her uncle didn't know she had it. She kept it hidden with her stash of novels and other things her uncle would disapprove of.

Bae knew it was wrong to take it—Wendy had _trusted_ him when she showed it to him—but he couldn't stand being in the doctor's house any longer. All the noise and bustle of a busy household usually seemed like a comfort—he was surrounded by people who knew his name and cared what happened to him. But, today, he couldn't stand it. It was like being surrounded by a sea of strangers. It was laundry day, and the maids were hanging up sheets to dry the same way they did every laundry day. Cook was busy in the kitchen fixing meals, the same as the day before and the same as she would tomorrow. Everything went on exactly as it always did, as if Papa's death didn't change anything.

Bae couldn't stand it anymore. If he hadn't found Wendy's key, he supposed he would have tried to run back to the East Side and see if the small hole he and Papa had made into a home was still there or if someone else had claimed it since they left. He needed someplace, someplace where he could hide and be alone.

The hole was in one of the worst corners of the East Side. He supposed, if he'd gone there in these clothes, someone would have robbed him for them. Maybe he'd have even gotten himself killed.

Maybe that would have been better.

Papa would be angry at him for thinking that. Papa had told him again and again he wanted him to live. When Papa starved himself and told Bae not to take any risks to get them food, it was because he was looking out for Bae. Because he loved him. Because he wanted what was best for him.

And that's why Papa was dead.

Bae wasn't sure how long he sat there, curled up in pain. But, he heard a sound, like a throat being cleared. He looked up and realized how dark it had gotten. He also saw Wendy standing in the doorway.

"I have a lamp," she said. "But, if I bring it in here, someone may see it from the window. The policemen will know no one's supposed to be here. Would you like to come into the hall?"

Bae stared at her blankly. Arguing—even asking questions—seemed too much effort. He got up and followed her out to the hall.

Wendy closed the door to the nursery. Her lamp was a dark lantern, one made so it could be shuttered and the light hidden. Bae had seen those in the East Side. More often than not, it was best to pretend you didn't see the people using them. He wondered how Wendy got one but knew he was too tired to hear whatever long story—he knew it would be a long one—she would give him if he asked.

"I thought you would either come here or someplace near where you used to live," Wendy said. "I remember what it was like when my Father died. I didn't want to be near anyone, either." She paused, looking at Bae as if he were a squirrel in the park she was trying to get close enough to give a nut to without frightening him away. "When Father died, they closed the curtains, covered the mirrors, and stopped the clocks. Uncle did the same when Benjamin died. It . . . helped, I think. The world changed. It was right it should look different. I thought you would look for someplace quiet and empty."

"Oh." There didn't seem to be anything else he could say.

Wendy sat down in the hallway. Bae hunched down across from her. "There's a stable in back—Father kept a horse in case he was called in on an emergency at night and couldn't find a hack. There was a room built over the stalls for the groom. If you want to stay here, you should use that. I expect the constable on the street won't notice any lights there. I've thought about ways I could set it about the house had been rented if I decided to run away and wanted to live here. Most of them wouldn't work, because the neighbors would recognize me and know I wasn't supposed to be here. But, I expect I might be able to make one of them work for you. We'd have to at least get you a man servant, or people would wonder at you're living here by yourself. But, I have some ideas about that. Or you can stay over the stable and take your chances. I could bring you my pin money. That would be easier than forging Uncle's signature on papers so I could get some of the money Father left me out of the bank—I'd have to get a grown-up to get take in the papers, too, and that could get tricky."

"No," Bae said. "I won't stay here. I just. . . ."

"I know," Wendy said. "If—if you want to be alone, I can go. I'll leave you the lantern. And money for a hack. It's getting dark out. You shouldn't walk home."

"Stay," Bae said. "Please.

"I remember when my mother died," he said abruptly. "I was young, but . . . Papa came home and told me. He promised me—he promised me he'd never leave me. I remember that."

"He didn't mean to leave you, Bae," Wendy said quietly. "He did everything he could for you. But, people die."

"I know that," Bae said. "But, it's my fault. We came here because of me. Because. . . ." he trailed off, not sure how to explain this to Wendy without telling her things she wouldn't believe. "You said you'd heard about the clearances in the highlands? How some people have been forced off land they've lived on for generations? How they're houses get pulled down or burnt if they won't leave? And how some people—some people fight back?"

"Yes."

"Things were . . . bad where we lived. A lot of people were gone. A lot of people were desperate." Papa among them. "Our lord expected those of us who were left to fight for him. I meant to." Which was as close as he could come to explaining a war where they took boys as young as him for soldiers. Dr. Hastings saw nothing wrong with a boy Bae's age sleeping in the _nursery_, a nursery he shared with a girl who was almost the same age he was and who wasn't his sister (Papa had told him to respect these people's customs and to always look away when Wendy was dressing). "There were men who attacked Papa. They beat him. But, when they tried to take me. . . Papa changed. Papa killed them."

"He what?"

"He killed them."

"Your papa? Mr. Weaver? That papa?"

"Yes. I know it sounds mad but . . . Papa had knife. And. . . ." Bae wasn't sure what to say that wasn't a lie. "He'd been to war." That was true enough. "He knew how to use it. And, I don't think the men expected him to fight back."

"Er. . . ." Wendy hesitated. "Was anyone looking for him up north? Soldiers or bow street runners or anyone like that?"

Bae laughed bitterly. "Oh, no. Don't worry. Our—our lord knew the whole story." Not that the duke would ever tell anyone the story. Papa had made sure of that. "No one was coming after Papa. No one like that." No one who wasn't stupid enough to try and kill the Dark One.

"But, it scared me, what happened to Papa. And—and I knew, if we stayed, something would happen again. Papa would hurt someone. Or they'd hurt him." He threw that in as an afterthought, to make it sound believable. Even now, even with Papa _dead,_ he had to watch what he said. He had to tell lies and make up stories—he had to lie to Wendy, who was just trying to help him.

And he couldn't tell her why this really was his fault. He couldn't tell her about the night in the forest when he had opened up the way to this world, when Papa had tried to pull him back and not go through.

And he had yelled at Papa and called him a coward. Just like the soldier who made Papa kiss his boot before beating him and leaving him in the road like so much trash. "I—I begged him to leave, Wendy. Because I was afraid. For him. For what I thought he'd become if we stayed.

"And he left. Because I asked him to. Because I _begged_ him to. And everything started to go wrong. And, now, Papa's dead. Because of me. It's my fault. It's all my fault."

Bae began to sob. He couldn't remember crying, not in the whole time they'd been in this world. Now, he wept like a squalling infant.

Wendy put her arms around him and held him. It was ridiculous, he thought. Wendy was younger than he was. But, right then, he could imagine that his mother was alive and holding as he wept for his father—the way his father had once held him while they wept for the mother he would never see again.

X

She told herself that magic, after all, was logical.

All right, not _logical_. Any idiot out there trying to put together some kind of Newton's laws was just going to get a splitting headache. Magic might always come with a price, but it wasn't some equal and opposite reaction thing. Take (just to use a random example) the Curse to End All Curses (as You-Know-Who had called it). The final price had been one heart and one life—but it had to be the one heart and one life the curse-caster loved above all others and didn't want to sacrifice.

Which was why she was standing around waiting for an acorn to glow—or waiting for it to glow _enough._

Which it was doing. Finally.

"Last call. Got everything packed?" she asked her partner.

He didn't roll his eyes or make a joke about her nerves—it was only the hundredth time she'd asked—showing he was just as keyed up as she was. He nodded absently, staring at the acorn. She did one more sweep of the room, something she'd also done about a hundred times.

"And last chance to buy souvenirs. Or snacks for the road. Want to buy one of Mrs. Tumnul's sweets before we go?"

That earned her a glare. _She _liked the sweets. _He_ had a tendency to get sticky stuff all over his hands that somehow managed not to clean off for the rest of the day. "Let's just get out of here."

"Right. And, this time, _concentrate._"

She picked up the acorn and felt the magic tingle in her hand. He put his hand over hers. He _looked_ like he was concentrating. Gold light began to spill out between their fingers. "On the count of three," she said. "One—two—three—"

Together, they threw it down. The acorn, now glowing brightly, cracked open. A brown vine blossomed out of it, budding and spreading its leaves. More vines followed, wrapping around each other and spreading upward. The created an arch. Inside it, a door made out of golden light began to form. Slowly, the door swung open, light spilling out of it and growing more intense till it filled the room—

They stood in the middle of a snow covered street. They were surrounded by people. There were women in long dresses and bonnets. All the men wore caps or hats of some sort and looked like they were answering a casting call for A Christmas Carol. A wagon was passing by, pulled by a donkey.

A small acorn dropped into Emma's hand. She glared at Neal. "I said _concentrate._ Let me guess, you were thinking about watching Masterpiece Theatre."

Neal looked around, baffled. "I wasn't. I don't understand. We had it set up right this time. You _know _we did. It should have followed the blood. Even if I hadn't been concentrating—and I was—it should have gotten us home."

"Yeah, well, we're still not in Kansas, Toto. What do we—"

That was when Emma noticed all the people staring at her. Some of the women turned red, then hurried their children past.

"Oh, great."

"Yeah," Neal said sympathetically. "Skinny jeans don't seem to have made it here as a fashion statement, yet."

That was when Emma noticed the guy who looked like an old movie policeman bearing down on them. "Uh, Neal, don't look now, but I think I'm about to be arrested for indecent exposure."

That was when Neal's eyes lit up and he grinned. "Don't worry," he told her. "I've got this one."

Emma groaned.

X

**Place Names:**

Londyn instead of London (from the Roman name, Londinium).

Skotland (and Skots) instead of Scotland.

Eireland and Eirish instead of Ireland and Irish (Eire being another name for Ireland).

Wales is Waels and the people are Waelsh, not Welsh.

Edinburg instead of Edinburgh.


	11. Road Home

**Wintersmith:** I won't get to explaining Neal and Emma for a bit, but they arrive only a few weeks after Rumple's capture. This chapter actually flashes back to Rumple's dream while drugged from the hypodermic.

**Delta Shout: **Glad you're enjoying it. I'll try leaving the spelling notes off for a bit (if anyone gets confused about anything, though, please, let me know).

**Angelvan105: **Thank you for your kind words. I should warn you that Rumple and Bae are going to be having some hard times

X

Rumplestiltskin dreamed he was in the familiar countryside again. He ignored the grass and flowers, hurrying down the road till he saw the house. It looked as it always did, which gave him some relief. He didn't know what he'd feared, but this place was linked to Rhosyn's mind. He wouldn't have been surprised to see it burnt to ashes in her anger at his betrayal.

_It wasn't a betrayal. I didn't know._

But, he'd had fears and suspicions. He'd known, much as he wanted to deny it, the thing preying on her was connected to him. He just hadn't wanted to know the whole story.

Never mind. The house was still there, small and beautiful. The roses growing up by the door were in full bloom. Whatever he'd done, he hadn't destroyed her sanctuary. That was something.

And, now, he knew. Now, he understood. He could tell what had been happening and why—he could even give her her name and pieces he'd gleaned of her past. It was something. It didn't make up for what he'd done, but it was something.

Breathing easier, he went to the gate. It didn't open.

Frowning, Rumplestiltskin pushed harder. It didn't move. It didn't even shift against the hinges. The small piece of wood might as well have been a boulder, for all the attention it paid to his efforts to move it.

No matter. The wooden gate didn't even rise to his waist and, in this world, he had two good legs. He started to climb over—

-And found himself back where he had started. He tried again. Again, he was back where he started.

_You're safe here,_ Rumplestiltskin had told her—had _promised_ her. This place was hers, and he had done what he could to strengthen that.

In this place, Rhosyn could keep out the shadow—and anything else she wanted.

"Rhosyn!" he called, not even sure if his words could get past the barrier. "_Rhosyn!_ Let me in! Rhosyn, please!" Was she in there? Could she even hear him? "Rhosyn, I'm sorry! I didn't know! Please, let me in!"

If this had been the real world, he would have called till his voice was hoarse and he collapsed, exhausted, still mouthing her name. But, this was a world of dreams. His voice didn't give out and his strength didn't give way. He called till he could feel himself being pulled out of sleep, back into the real world.

He was in cage in a room he knew only too well. Manacled to the bars, he could see the table where Hastings' victims were killed.

X

In the farthest corner of the house, Rhosyan sat huddled up against the wall, her hands over her ears, shaking and trying not to hear the voice outside calling for her till it faded away.


	12. Nothing either Good or Bad

**Note: **I couldn't resist starting with a quote.

X

_**Hamlet:** What have you, my good friends, deserv'd at the hands of Fortune, that she sends you to prison hither?_

_**Guildenstern:** Prison, my lord?_

_**Hamlet:** Denmark's a prison._

_**Rosencrantz:** Then is the world one._

_**Hamlet:** A goodly one, in which there are many confines, wards, and dungeons, Denmark being one o' th' worst._

_**Rosencrantz:** We think not so, my lord._

_**Hamlet:** Why then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison._

X

Rumplestiltskin's leg was on fire. Despite himself, he strained against the straps holding him on the table. He tried to block out the pain, focusing on something else, anything else.

_They had a pet dragonfly._ Rumplestiltskin tried to focus on the words of the old song. _The dragonfly it ran away/ But it came back—came back—_

Fire burned up his leg. Too hard to think in words. Numbers. Think numbers. A dragonfly had four wings. Like a fairy. Wasn't there a poem about boys plucking wings from dragonflies? _As flies to wanton boys are we—are we— _ No, he couldn't remember what came next.

He wasn't going to scream as they cut into him, not sure why it mattered anymore. Except it did. Silence was the only weapon he had left, choosing what to say and what not to say. It was the only _hope_ he had left, to keep back anything that would help these butchers, to try and feed them words that wouldn't cost lives.

Rumplestiltskin counted and silently recited rhymes. The doctor put some kind of ointment on the wound he'd made that nearly broke Rumplestiltskin's resolve to keep silent. It seared like the hot irons the surgeons in the duke's army had used to seal wounds. He passed out as the doctor was stitching the wound closed.

When he woke, they were done and unstrapping him. Dr. Hastings examined the bandage over the his leg before nodding to Lucas and Stevens, the guards, who hauled Rumplestiltskin back to his cage and manacled him in. It still burned. How could it hurt so much? The pain had been unbearable when his leg had been crushed all those years ago, but he didn't remember it being like this.

_Four wings on a dragonfly, _Rumplestiltskin thought. _Two on a bird. A dragon—_He tried to remember pictures of dragons. Two, wasn't it? And four legs. Wyverns—wyverns had two wings and two legs. They could fold the wings and crawl with them, like a bat. Bats—two legs, two—two—

Lucas shoved him back to the side of the cage, reaching for the second manacle. His leg went against the wall. For a moment, there was nothing but a red haze over his eyes and pain burning through him.

_Don't scream. Don't scream—don't—_

"Be careful with him," Dr. Hastings snapped, looking up from examining his prize. He had it in one of his glass specimen-jars. It was deep red, covered in blood, but Rumplestiltskin knew what it was. Hastings frowned. "He's not to be left alone. He should be all right, but if there's any sign of infection setting in, fetch me immediately."

_Oh, having second thoughts, now, are you?_ Rumplestiltskin silently mocked. He wanted to snarl—to scream—

_No, keep control. Think. Poems. Numbers. Pet dragonfly. How many letters in dragonfly? One—two—_

He almost wished the doctor would give him laudanum again, much as he hated the drug now he knew how it had been used against him. Hastings had told him how he would dose him with it before taking his blood every few days. "I think it interfered with the effects," Hastings had said. "The first sample of blood I took was stronger—much stronger. Although you're still a superior subject than Cashel."

He talked about it that way, "superior subject," "samples," even "donations" for what he took from Rumplestiltskin. And he _enjoyed_ discussing his work with Rumplestiltskin—and never seemed to find it odd that he was talking that way to a man he had manacled in a cage, like one of the patients in the secure ward.

When Rumplestiltskin had first woken up in here, he hadn't been surprised. He had recognized the room from his dreams, though some details had escaped him. Take the doctor's "operating table." He'd seen it used often enough, but he hadn't seen how the tabletop was made of marble. A good stone, Rumplestiltskin supposed, for cutting things. There were several leather straps attached to it—adjustable, so the table could accommodate victims of assorted sizes. Rumplestiltskin thought it could hold one as large as the guard who shown him around the asylum (there was a pleasant thought). It could also hold . . . smaller ones. Much smaller ones.

But, if you could ignore what it was for, it was cleverly made. It was slightly raised at one end—the easier for blood (and anything else) to drain away. There was even a groove cut along the side, for . . . materials to flow down. A container could be attached at the end, just below the groove, to catch whatever drained away.

There was one there now. Waste not, want not. The doctor was very careful. After the stone was cleaned off from one of Rumplestiltskin's sessions, he even kept the blood soaked rags he had the table cleaned with.

As Hastings explained—ever so patiently—Rumplestiltskin's blood was only a _catalyst._ The _energy_ came from the other people hauled up on that stone, the ones who died there.

"It's a pity, but pain seems to be necessary," Dr. Hastings said, sounding like a housekeeper who found out she would have to walk another two blocks to buy cucumbers, the preferred store being out. "Cashel was right about that. They need to die and they need to die slowly for any useful energy to be harvested."

"Energy," Rumplestiltskin had said. "Magic."

Dr. Hastings frowned. "_Aetheric forces,_" he said. "Magic is superstitious nonsense. There's no such thing. This is scientific phenomena as much as any other part of the rational universe. Just because the mechanisms aren't fully understood doesn't mean that the rational mind can't understand it." He had then gone on to lecture the Dark One on the foolishness of believing in magic.

There were different forces, light, heat, electricity, gravity, the doctor said. Aether was simply a word he used for this new, unclassified one—the one he didn't understand but only knew it wasn't one of the others.

He'd gone on about "the necessary methods for the acquisition of aetheric forces bound up in living beings," never calling what he did human sacrifices. The doctor explained his theory how different emotional states (he never called it suffering) acted to release such energies as were tied up in the "life force."

"'Life' is probably the wrong word," Hastings said. "Matter, energy, these all have different states. What we call life is simply matter operating at a higher level. It's what energizes the brain. Pain has been known for centuries to also energize the brain—it can take up all its resources so any other thought becomes impossible," (_four wings on dragonflies, two on a bat)_. "This high energy added to a strong desire that the state end, even if it means death—by 'death,' you understand, I mean reducing the body to a state of lower ordered energy, free of aetheric forces—it is essentially trying to expel aetheric energy. With work, I hope to find a less wasteful way to achieve the same ends, but it has so far eluded me."

Rumplestiltskin had fought back the desire to snarl out the truth to him. Pain was real. Suffering was real. _Death _was real. And dark magic recognized them and fed on them.

Instead, he spoke politely, diffidently—and was rewarded by the small crumbs of information the doctor dropped for him.

Not everyone in hospital knew about the lab, that was one thing he learned. They knew the doctor had a study, here, a secure area to work and where some dangerous materials were stored. Rumplestiltskin hadn't determined if the doctor used magic or intimidation to keep them away.

He didn't know if magic was involved in keeping people from noticing his victims, either. He was careful what questions he asked them. Some, even if they'd been drugged, could barely hide their terror. They didn't need Rumplestiltskin adding to it. Some, especially the children, were pale and quiet. There was a small cot where they were placed, a manacle with a chain leading to the wall was usually locked around the ankle. Sometimes other restraints were used.

Dr. Hastings generally put out the lamps before leaving. But, most of the time—not always, but most of the time—the guards left a small candle burning in the storm lamp when they brought in a new prisoner. Rumplestiltskin thought Lucas and Stevens were bespelled, but he was never sure. Sometimes, he thought their stupor might be from opium or some other drug—or maybe they were simply brutal and stupid. He doubted this last, though. Stupid men couldn't be counted on to keep quiet. Rumplestiltskin couldn't imagine Hastings letting anyone see what went on here without being certain of their silence.

Whatever means he used and whatever fog the men operated in, they had a better sense of what was going on in here than the doctor did. They knew better than to be in this room without any light to protect them. Even when they left, they knew better than to leave the door gaping in on darkness behind them.

Rumplestiltskin wondered sometimes if they sensed the demon inside him. Unlikely. He might as well be a corpse, the way they treated him. But, they knew there was something in the darkness they didn't want to face.

The darkness didn't frighten Rumplestiltskin. He was its source.

The light, thank the gods, was at the far end of the room and dim enough the other prisoners rarely saw what they were speaking with when he talked with them: a naked man chained and caged like the most dangerous psychotic in the asylum.

Not all of the prisoners died here. Sometimes, the doctor needed maiden's blood or a child's tears or some other ingredient. If that was all, he used the same spell he'd used on Wendy to make her forget and walk away.

Sometimes, the prisoners were experiments. The doctor attempted new spells on them. If they survived—and the results weren't too terrible—they also forgot. Of course, if they prisoners from the asylum, they might just be returned to their cells, to scream or cry as they would.

Rumplestiltskin had learned to recognize the ones who would live. Patients from the hospital almost never died. Orphans who'd been bought from the workhorse or found on the streets almost never lived.

He tried to comfort them, though the words were like ashes in his mouth. He wondered if the gods counted it as another sin against him. Surely, it must be one of the blackest of all crimes, to convince children their murders weren't murders.

Nearly as black, he thought, as doing nothing and letting them die in fear.

Dr. Hastings had apologized for the _necessity_ of locking him up. But, since Cashel died, Rumplestiltskin was the first catalyst he'd found. He couldn't let him leave.

"It was an experiment," the doctor said regretfully. "A self-indulgence, really. I wanted to see what would happen if you met Miss Thomas," he said. "She's Waelsh. I think there must be something in the blood of the Celtic peoples," he added musingly. "All the aetheric sensitives I've found—you, Miss Thomas, Cashel—are from one of their peoples. Unlike you, her blood's quite worthless. But, she has what they call second sight. It functions quite weakly on its own—not to mention irrationally. The girl took me in dislike from almost the moment I met her, seemed to think I meant her ill." He snorted at this sign of feminine unreasonableness.

Gods above and below, the man seemed to believe what he was saying. Rumplestiltskin stifled the urge to laugh. Or weep. He wasn't sure which.

Hastings went on. "If I'd known what would come of that. . . ." he sighed. "I really am sorry about this, Mr. Weaver."

Yes, Rumplestiltskin had thought, sitting in his cage, he was sure Hastings was. He might even regret it more than a stain on his suit or a tear in his shirt. Not that the doctor wasn't a man to look for the silver lining. He no longer had to taint Rumplestiltskin's blood with laudanum before taking it. And he could take other things, things the old books and collections of folklore he looked through suggested might be useful, like hair and bile. Rumplestiltskin had scars on his back where the doctor had taken skin.

Then, today, he'd given into the craving to take a bit of bone.

Rumplestiltskin's shattered leg was just too tempting. It had healed crookedly. He might even be better off, Dr. Hastings had said, having one of the bits that pressed up at a point against the skin taken away.

He tried to think of something other than the pain.

He wondered if this would prove to be another mistake for the doctor, like setting him up to see Miss Thomas. Hastings had asked what it was that sent him running. "_She_ seemed to associate you with the medicine we give her—rather remarkable, but she's always been sensitive to it—but why did her words effect you that way?"

_I met her in dreams and she told me what you did to her. _No, he couldn't say that. "I . . . don't know." Not exactly a lie. It hadn't been her words, it had been the memories seeing her brought back to him. "I'd been having nightmares." That was safe enough. The doctor had seen him on the mornings after he'd been bled, after all. "They were full of shadows and death." Death: true but vague. He did not say they were full of people dying. If the doctor had pressed for details, he would claim he didn't really remember them clearly—well, he hadn't known the table was marble, had he? And he'd never seen the doctor doing the killing. The one, very small advantage Rumplestiltskin had— the one he guarded like a dragon guarded his gold—was his silence. The doctor had no idea how much Rumplestiltskin knew about his precious, aetheric forces. "When that woman—Miss Thomas, you said?—began screaming about those very things, it was like meeting them in the waking day. I . . . only knew I had to get away, to get Bae and go."

He half expected the doctor to say something about it only being the effects of laudanum. He'd said as much before. Some people it gave peaceful slumber, some it gave nightmares. Instead, the man only looked thoughtful.

That, Rumplestiltskin knew, was the other reason he was here. Oh, the doctor wasn't going to give up his precious catalyst—though he might cut him open and experiment on him. And, if Rumplestiltskin was unlucky—or lucky, he wasn't sure which—he might kill him with infected wounds or some other accident.

Until then, Rumplestiltskin was the most important ingredient in the doctor's potions. He wouldn't let him go.

But, even more, the doctor wouldn't let him take Bae.

And that, even more than keeping his secrets and keeping silent, was the reason Rumplestiltskin tried to speak calmly and get what information he could from the doctor. The doctor had Bae—and, now and then, he let small crumbs of information fall.

As the doctor had sharpened his knives while Lucas and Stevens strapped Rumplestiltskin down before taking his bone, he had casually told Rumplestiltskin how Bae had run away when the doctor told him his father was dead. He'd also come back (Rumplestiltskin didn't know if he was relieved or afraid for Bae, still under the doctor's roof).

Sometimes, Rumplestiltskin thought the doctor had come to see Bae as a substitute for his son, Benjamin. He talked about how bright Bae was, how gifted. He talked about sending Bae to school—one of the elite schools that would prepare him for university. The life of a gentleman, Rumplestiltskin thought, the life of a man who would never know hunger or want in this world, trying to pretend it gave him hope.

There were other times when the doctor seemed upset at the idea of ever sending Bae away, as though he didn't want him out of his sight. The same way he didn't want Rumplestiltskin and his blood escaping.

Cashel had gone mad. There were times, Dr. Beaton had written, when he acted like the worst of drunks, willing to sell his soul for just one drop of liquor. Only Cashel's drug was the thrill of killing his victims and feeling the magic flowing through him.

Rumplestiltskin understood. He knew that rush of power.

Worse, though he thought he was sane, though he _thought_ he controlled the darkness inside him, he knew what it was to _burn_ to kill. If that was what was consuming the doctor. . . . Rumplestiltskin remembered Bae's fear as the curse had grown stronger and stronger in him. He hadn't understood it—he hadn't been able to understand it.

Now, he saw the same thing in the doctor.

If the doctor slipped, Rumplestiltskin told himself—if he could get just the tiniest drop of magic—the doctor would finally learn rationality and logic had _nothing _to do with magic. As for demons, they were very, very real.

He told himself this, day after day, watching the children die, not bothering to fight back as his blood was drained and his body was cut away, bit by bit.

A drop, he told himself, like a man dying of thirst in the desert, just a single drop.


	13. Bodies Safe to Shore

**Wintersmith: **There's less pain in this chapter.

**YukaTheDemon1: **I actually wasn't familiar with Asylum: Dark Descent, but I read the summary online. Those are . . . creepy similarities.

**Angelvan105: **Glad you liked it. Just remember, Rumplestiltskin's nightmares are a bit more real in this world.

X

Rhosyn hadn't known how to escape.

But . . . she knew how to find out how.

Just the idea made her want to scream. But, it would work. It should work. It _had_ to work.

The shadow (_and it had been _**him**_, lying to her, making her feel safe, giving her tea with milk and honey while he ate her from the inside_) made her see. And the things she saw were real (_unless she was mad. Like a dog that needed to die. And, if she was, it didn't matter, did it?_).

_They_ asked her questions (_she didn't know who asked, only that she heard voices demanding answers as she screamed)_. _They_ directed what she saw. She wasn't left alone till it was too late and the visions were gone. Only shattered fragments were left, as when she warned the woman who talked to run (_had warned? Would warn? Or hadn't warned at all?_).

She had to make herself see. And there was only one way to do that.

Rhosyn saved a small pinch of her porridge. She was watched while she ate, but the women never watch closely. So, Rhosyn put the spoon in the bowl. Then, so no one could see, she put her hand to the spoon. Touching it made her skin crawl, as though she were holding worms, worms she could already feel trying to burrow into her skin to eat her from the inside out.

_No, don't think about it. They're not inside me. And I won't let them in. Yet._

She scooped up a few more mouthfuls, trying to ignore her hand. Wait a few seconds before doing anything else her watchers could think was odd, hope she didn't look suspicious, and try to ignore the way her head was already beginning to swim. Carefully, she let the hand drop to her side where it was hidden behind her body. She reached under the thin blanket on her bed and wiped her hand off on the sheet beneath. Then, she quickly gobbled down the rest of her food, rubbing her hand on the skirt of her dress to clean off any gruel that was left.

The room darkened and twisted. It became the cave (_if the house was hers, was this place Rumplestiltskin's? She'd never asked, just been relieved that he took her _away). The shadow was there, hungry as worms. It swooped down on her, catching her in its claws, surrounding her, tearing her with its teeth as it flowed under her skin.

The voices came, making their demands. The shadow tore beneath her as she shouted back answers and begged them to stop (_she could run when the questioning stopped, but the words pinned her down, gave the shadow power. _How? _She wondered. _How could he do this to her?).

But, the voices faded and the shadow drained away.

This was the best time, the time when she could rush to the safety of the house. Rhosyn wanted to go there and pour herself a cup of tea (_the cup was supposed to be chipped, even if she didn't know _why). She wanted to add milk and honey (_even if honey was _his). She wanted to rest and look at the flowers or study the pictures on the walls.

Instead, she pretended she was on the small sofa in the parlor, falling asleep in that way that was really waking up (_she remembered sitting there and talking, she remembered the times _he_ had held her close when the pain of knowing she would have to go back was almost too much to bear, making her feel safe_). It was backwards, too, going from peace and rest to opening her eyes in her cell.

It wouldn't be so hard, except that she knew what she'd have to do when she got there.

Never mind. It was the answer. It was the _only_ answer. _He_ couldn't help her. She could only help herself.

She opened her eyes, lying on her bed.

Rhosyn was so tired. It was hard to think, even when she let herself rest in the house rather than forcing herself awake. She could tell by the light that hours had passed, but she was still exhausted from the first session.

But, it was the only time she could do this. She forced herself to sit up and pulled back the blanket. There was the bit of gruel, smushed and messy against the blanket and the sheet. With a quick glance to make sure no one was watching (it wasn't meal time, but you never knew), she bent down over it, eating it straight from the cloth, licking up every grain. The whole time she did it, she kept repeating her question over and over again in her mind, fighting the darkness as it rose up to drown her to keep focused on those words.

_How do I escape this place? _

The world didn't fade away, as it usually did. She wasn't in a cave or forest or mountaintop. Instead, the darkness seemed to pour out of every corner of the room, coming towards her. Rhosyn wanted to whimper, to get as far away from those dark tendrils as she could, even if it only meant hiding in the corner. Instead, she focused on the words.

_How do I escape this place? _she asked the shadow. _How? Tell me how!_

She heard screams. They might have been hers. She saw the images, incoherent and terrifying, dancing before her eyes in answer. They spoke to her, and she spoke back. Or shouted. She knew she wept—wept till it was a wonder her throat didn't bleed with the pain.

And, then, abruptly, she found herself lying discarded on the road to the house.

Twice in one day. It was too much. She didn't want to move. It was like the time she'd been freezing in the forest, but . . . she needed to get there. That was also part of this. Her safe place, he'd called it. And it was, even if she had let him in. She could go there and _plan._ And she could rest abd protect herself, for a time, from the darkness. So, Rhosyn went, slamming the gate shut behind her (_I won't let you in here, _she told the man who wasn't there. _I won't!_).

Hers. He's said this was hers.

She didn't know if there was truth to it or not. But, since then, she hadn't seen him. She had heard him. Or something pretending to be him. Or was it that the thing he really was had only pretended to be the man she thought she knew?

Whatever the game, she was glad to be left in peace.

X

Unlike many, Bessie Pruett didn't mind making rounds in the women's secure ward. Although she'd never say it, she thought it smelled better. Bessie had been a country girl before events forced her find work in London. She didn't mind the smell of animals or compost heaps, but there was something about the smell of dozens of people being ill—and the smell of bleach and lye and she didn't know what used to _try_ and scrub the sick smell away—that always left her fighting a headache and feeling sick to her stomach by the end of the day. It was a great failing in a hospital worker and not one she meant to admit to. Headache or not, she made better money than a scullery maid, even if much of the work was the same.

The patients in the secure ward might be ill in their minds, but they were far healthier in their bodies. There was a strong smell of soap and an occasional whiff of bleach, but it was all bearable. The soap was even homey. Over time, she found herself feeling protective of the patients. They were sad souls, after all, like poor Mrs. Mead, who frequently had to be restrained lest she harm herself, or Miss Lanier, who had violent fits. There was Miss Adams, of course, who had tried to murder her own mother and who it was dangerous to get too close to, but Bessie felt perfectly safe with the solid door between them.

There was also the Jane Doe. Nurse Fletcher normally brought her her food. Bessie only did it when Nurse Fletcher couldn't—and Nurse Fletcher or one of the guards _always _prepared her morning gruel. She wasn't the only patient whose meals had medicine mixed in, but Bessie was told the Jane Doe's required very specific preparation.

The Jane Doe was delusional, so they told Bessie. She'd seemed better for a while. Bessie had begun wondering why she wasn't put in the secondary ward, where patients could be allowed more privileges and supervised walks outside their cells. Then, the woman had taken a turn for the worse. Nurse Fletcher had been delivering her food that day, Bessie remembered, but they'd all heard the woman's screams.

"Get it away! Get it away!" the woman yelled. "There's blood in it, blood and shadows. It wants to eat me. Keep it away!"

Fortunately, Nurse Fletcher had the guards with her that time (more often, the women made the rounds on their own, only fetching the guards to help if there was trouble). Bessie found Lucas and Stevens rather frightening, but there was no denying they were good at their work.

Bessie hung back and listened as Nurse Fletcher dealt with the situation. She went in with the guards, and Bessie heard her calmly tell the woman she could eat her food or be taken to another room where a tube would be forced down her throat and she would have to eat it anyway.

"If the patient doesn't want to take her medication orally, I'm sure we can arrange that she can have it some other way. But I don't think that she would like it," Nurse Fletcher said, her voice dripping with quiet menace. Bessie was impressed. She knew there were times patients had to be force-fed, but it was always better to get them to eat on their own. Force-feeding could be dangerous, she'd been told, even deadly when done wrong. Bessie had been in awe at how the Jane Doe had given in.

Still, there'd been something awful in the way she'd quietly picked up her bowl and eaten the contents, as though the food really were what she said it was, full of demons and human blood—as if they'd done something terrible to her, forcing her to eat it—_breaking _her so she would eat it.

Despite the medicine, the Jane Doe was worse after that. She had horrible fits for the rest of the day. Dr. Hastings, one of the most important doctors they had, came to check on her. In fact, as the Jane Doe's condition deteriorated over the next few weeks, he was frequently there.

"He takes a special interest in her case," Nurse Fletcher explained. "There are several unique aspects to it." She didn't elaborate, but Bessie supposed that was why there were so many special rules for the Jane Doe.

There were many of them, and they were all odd. For one, they were never to address her as "Jane Doe," or use any other name for her. "The doctor has been quite clear on that," Nurse Fletcher said. She had a way of saying "the doctor" that sounded like the vicar saying "throne of God."

Nurse Fletcher went on, "She has lost her sense of identity, so the doctor says. Giving her a false name will only reinforce that. Do you understand?"

Bessie didn't understand what the doctor was getting on about, but she supposed she understood well enough to follow the rules. Names, though, were only the beginning. The patient was _only_ to be given the breakfast gruel that had been made specifically for her. "We mix some of her medicine into it," Nurse Fletcher said. "But, the doctor is also very particular about her diet. Some foods will make her worse."

And, the most important rule of all: "You are never, _never_ supposed to be alone with her in her cell. If you need to enter it, you will summon a guard. Under _no circumstances_ will you enter the cell by yourself."

Bessie obeyed most of the rules, but she had problems with one. She wasn't supposed to talk to the patient except for very specific things: tell her to eat her food, tell her to bring her bowl to the slot. If the woman seemed ill, she could ask specific questions (she'd been given a list) before summoning the nurse. Above all, Bessie wasn't supposed to chat with her (it had something to do with that weak sense of identity, Nurse Fletcher said).

But, Bessie had a hard time remembering not to wish her a cheery good morning or not to say thank you when she put her bowl through the slot. That, Bessie supposed, could be forgiven. But, she also blurted out other things from time to time. Many of the patients had something odd about their eyes. Some of them were given medicine to quiet them, of course, which left their gaze dull and lifeless (she did wonder sometimes about Lucas and Stevens, who had a similar look. But, if they were stealing any medicines, whatever they took didn't keep them from doing their jobs). Others, like Miss Adams when she was talking about revenge, were over-bright and staring. The Jane Doe's (before her breakdown about the gruel and blood) were only bright in the way an intelligent, energetic person's should be.

"I do envy you your eyes," Bessie told her once. "So sky-blue and pretty. I wish mine were like that."

Worse, she'd answered some of the patient's questions before remembering she wasn't supposed to.

"Do you have a home?" the patient asked her once as she looked in.

"What? Of course, I do."

"Are there . . . flowers?" She said it as if that would be such a strange thing, as if she were asking if Bessie hopped out the window and flew round the moon.

"I've a window-box full of them," Bessie said.

"So, they're real," the Jane Doe breathed. "I didn't just dream them."

And Bessie was reminded that the Jane Doe was supposed to be mad—and she wasn't supposed to speak to her.

But, it was another conversation, the one Bessie later thought of as her second oddest conversation with the patient, that convinced her the woman was truly and utterly insane.

"I'm not mad," the patient said one day. "Rumplestiltskin says I'm not and he would know."

"Oh, Rumplestiltskin says you're not?" Bessie said. "I suppose he visits you here and spins straw into gold, too, does he?"

"We drink tea," the patient said. "Why should he spin gold?"

"Because, that's what Rumplestiltskin does. Don't you know the rest of the story? Rumplestiltskin spins straw into gold. But, watch out, because he'll take your firstborn child in return unless you guess his name."

The patient looked puzzled. "That's silly. He told me his name. Anyway, he has a child of his own. He's not taking anyone else's." She stopped, a funny looking coming into her face. "But, someone will take his. Or he'll try."

"Oh, really? And who's going to take Rumplestiltskin's child?"

"The same one who gives me blood. The same one who feeds me to the shadows. But, the dead are dead. He won't be bringing them back. But, they might bring him to them."

It was all nonsense, but Bessie felt a chill. "What do you mean? Who'll bring him to them?"

"The dead. I don't think they like being dead. Not after the way he killed them. But, they can wait. I don't suppose it matters when he dies. They'll be there, waiting for him." She looked up as though she'd suddenly realized something. "_That's _why! That's why ghosts don't kill their murderers more often. They can wait."

She was mad but she spoke with calm rationality. It was impossible not to believe her.

Of course, Bessie couldn't talk to Nurse Fletcher about it, since she'd have to admit talking to the patient against the rules. For a while, she was very good about delivering the food and quickly moving on.

But . . . there was something about the Jane Doe. Part of it was the way she seemed nearly sane in the morning. When Bessie delivered food in the evenings, she looked the very picture of a mad woman. She would stare blankly or moan and cry. She would babble nonsense—frightening nonsense about blood and death, but nonsense all the same. Sometimes, she sat rocking back and forth, singing strange, eerie songs.

"_There's an old voice in my head that's holding me back. Soon, it will be over and buried with our past. . . ._

"_Don't listen to a word I say. The screams all sound the same. . . ._"

The medicine didn't seem to help her. In fact (though it wasn't Bessie's place to even think of such things), it even seemed to . . . make her worse.

Bessie buried that thought. This was a good paying job, and she had no desire to lose her situation—especially not over a madwoman.

The Jane Doe herself had warned her. When Bessie was dropping off the evening meal, the thought had crossed her mind that there was something wrong with how they were treating her. The patient had looked up suddenly and laughed. "Don't say it, don't think it. If they hear you, you won't be leaving here anymore than I do."

But, it was their last conversation, the truly strange one, that convinced her . . . the woman might not be mad after all.

It was a terrible day. Staff were sick and the kitchen was short-handed. The gruel had been burnt and had to be thrown away. Nurse Fletcher had to make a record of it and authorize getting more grain to make a new batch. They were running behind, and Bessie was hastily loading up bowls and medicine onto her cart when she realized she didn't have a ladle to fill the bowls from the pot (except for the Jane Doe's gruel, everyone else's was filled from the pot as Bessie made her rounds. If there was any medicine to mix in, she did it right before serving it).

As she went back to get the ladle, she saw Nurse Fletcher preparing the Jane Doe's gruel. Normally, Nurse Fletcher prepared it in her office, where Bessie couldn't even see her. But, today she was hurrying, and the kitchen was temporarily empty, all the staff running out to get food to different wings.

Bessie saw her put a packet of what looked like dried leaves into the bowl and opened another packet that had a white powder in it, normal enough medicines. Then, Nurse Fletcher took out a vial of some sort. She unstoppered it and poured the contents into the bowl.

It was a red liquid. Red and bright as blood.

Bessie backed hastily out of the room. _I'm imagining things, _she told herself. _I've been chatting with the patients in the secure wing too much. All sorts of things can be red. Medicine. Wine. Fruits and berries. _

Bessie took a deep breath and came back into the room, pretending it was the first time. "Nurse Fletcher?" she said. "I need a ladle. Do you see—oh, there it is."

"Pruett," Nurse Fletcher said, turning around. She handed Bessie the bowl of gruel (she must have filled it from the communal pot behind her, even though she'd always said the patient's gruel needed to be specially prepared). "Take this. It's the Jane Doe's. Don't let this morning's confusion interfere with your duties. It's essential the patient get the right food."

Bessie curtsied hastily. "Of course, Nurse Fletcher."

"Very good," Nurse Fletcher swept out with a rustle of starched skirts, sounding like a battleship heading off to war.

Bessie looked around. Dirty dishes and such went by the sink. Anything medical—like vials—went on a special tray far away from any food till someone would cart it off for cleaning elsewhere. Bessie found the vial. It was ceramic, not glass like most of the vials the doctors and nurses used. You couldn't see what was in it from the outside.

Before she could change her mind, Bessie grabbed the vial and put it in her pocket. It was theft, she thought. People were fired for less than this. And all for foolishness, for a madwoman's tale.

She delivered the gruel, gathering up the old bowls. Mrs. Mead was in one of her better moods when Bessie got to her cell. At least, she was sane enough to notice someone else's problems. "Why so glum?" she asked. "You look like your best friend died." Her expression turned stricken. "She didn't, did she?"

"No, no," Bessie said, forcing a laugh. There were no rules against talking to Mrs. Mead. "Everyone's fine. I'm just a touch tired today."

"I see," Mrs. Mead said, nodding wisely. "I'm always worse when I'm tired, too." She sighed. "It's so hard to sleep in here, don't you agree?"

Bessie agreed and moved on. She didn't chat with the Jane Doe, who didn't offer any cryptic advice before taking her bowl. It wasn't till Bessie had delivered all the gruel that she had a chance to examine the vial.

She looked up and down the corridor, but no one was there. Nurse Fletcher would be busy rewriting schedules and filling out other papers. Lucas and Stevens were with Dr. Hastings.

Bessie took the stopper out and sniffed. It might not have meant anything to someone else, but Bessie had a wonderfully sensitive nose. She recognized the smell of blood.

Part of Bessie knew she should start running right then, but there was something else she needed to do first. She left the dishes in the kitchen and dropped off the vial in the cleaning tray, hoping no one had noticed it missing. She went about her other tasks, scrubbing and cleaning, till she could go back to the secure ward.

By then, Dr. Hastings had finished with the Jane Doe. Bessie checked through the grill. The woman was alone.

When Bessie gave her her morning gruel, she had looked sane. Her eyes had been bright. Her face had been resigned but not—not _tormented._

The face that looked at her now had eyes that were dull and lifeless. It was the face of someone who had looked into the abyss—and hadn't yet crawled out. She was singing one of her mad songs again.

"_You're gone, gone, gone away  
"I watched you disappear  
"All that's left is the ghost of you.  
"Now we're torn, torn, torn apart,  
"There's nothing we can do  
"Just let me go we'll meet again soon  
"Now wait, wait, wait for me  
"Please hang around  
"I'll see you when I fall asleep_

She looked up at Bessie. Bessie, looking into those eyes, wasn't sure if the woman looking at her was awake—the cold, empty way those eyes bore into her, she might have been looking out of her own grave.

"You know, don't you?" the woman said. "What are you still doing here? Get out. Get out and never come back. Before they stop you."

Bessie hurried out of the corridor (she didn't run, people knew something was wrong when they saw you run). She hurried out of the hospital and onto the street. Workers like her were given rooms, same as maids and footmen. Bessie had never felt safe keeping her small hoard of coins there, in case someone stole it. She had her purse with her now. She didn't go back for her clothes or anything else.

By the time Nurse Fletcher finished all the changes she to the schedule, she found herself short one more staff.

X

There was a new woman since the old one had run away (_run away or been caught? Nothing Rhosyn saw showed her_). The strict woman had been the only one to bring Rhosyn her food for several days running. But, three days before _the _day—the one her vision had shown her—Rhosyn knew it was time to get ready. When the day came, she thought—she _hoped—_she was prepared.

It was time for the evening meal. A new woman looked in the cell. Like Rhosyn, she had red hair. She was also had hard eyes that wouldn't put up with any nonsense. But Rhosyn knew the woman wasn't used to the way things worked here. She'd make mistakes. Or so Rhosyn hoped.

Rhosyn sat on her bed, trying to look exhausted and weak. It was easy enough. The days were always so hard, and she'd been up half the night finishing getting ready, tearing up what was left of her sheets. And, again, she'd had to force herself into waking up long before she was ready.

"Here, now," the new woman said. "Bring your bowl to the slot. Step lively, girl!"

"I can't," Rhosyn said. She didn't have to pretend to sound weak and frail. "The slot's stuck. They said someone would fix it."

The woman fumed, not believing her. But, she tried the slot. The metal plate over it wouldn't open. Rhosyn had seen to that.

It had been risky, she thought. The vision hadn't shown her everything, and she'd had to come up with some parts herself. Compared to the world with blue sky, the corridor was dark. Rhosyn thought the woman wouldn't be able to see well, even if she was inclined to check the metal plate. Rhosyn _thought _she wouldn't be.

Rhosyn had broken off the handle on her spoon. Then, she had had to break the handle in two. She'd used one of the legs of the bed to help bend it in the right place, then bent it back and forth till it broke. The pieces were rammed up between the plate and the door, just far enough—Rhosyn _thought_ it was just far enough—to keep it from opening without the pieces being seen.

The woman struggled with the plate for a few seconds before giving up. "Put the bowl by the door," the she snapped.

Meekly, head bowed, Rhosyn obeyed. This was important. Far enough away the woman would see it, close enough to the door for the next part of her vision.

The woman had keys to the doors. If she were experienced, she would remember this was forbidden—she might even know _why_ this was forbidden. But, Rhosyn was huddled up on her bed again. And the woman didn't want to wait for the guards before she finished. It had been a long day, and she was tired.

Rhosyn, who should have been too keyed up at this moment to even think of sleep, understood. She was tired, too. Her thoughts blurred. The shadow had eaten through her, and she hadn't slept. She almost _could_ go to sleep—

_No, stay awake. Or this will all be wasted._

The door swung open. The bowl went flying. The woman grumbled and stepped into the cell, stepping over to where the bowl had landed, her back to Rhosyn as she bent down to pick it up.

Rhosyn reached beneath her blanket, pulling out the shard. Quietly, she got up in the moment the woman's back was turned. It was only a few steps. The woman didn't hear her.

The woman picked up the bowl—or what she thought was the bowl. Three days ago, Rhosyn had torn a large piece from her sheets (last night, she had torn up the rest). She had fit it into her bowl after scooping out the gruel. Then, she had put enough gruel back in to plaster up the sides. She had walked back and forth with it all night, waving it about (only as much as she dared without dislodging any of the gruel), getting it to dry faster.

By morning, the bit of sheet was dry and stiff enough to hold its shape. She got it out and hid it beneath her bed. When they came for her evening bowl, she was able to keep between the bowl and anyone looking in. When they came to question her as the poison took hold, she could only hope it would go unseen.

It had been completely dry by the time she put it out for the new woman to see. Maybe, if she'd looked closely, she'd have seen it wasn't really a bowl. But, the light was bad, and she'd seen a bowl when she looked for one.

Rhosyn held the sharp edge of the shard against the woman's throat. "Shh," she whispered. "Not a sound. Get up—and don't try to fight. I'll be having this in your throat if you try."

The woman stiffened, terrified. "Afraid?" Rhosyn said, sympathetic. "I know how that feels. But, you'll live if you do what I say. Give me your clothes."

Rhosyn needed the dress. People from the cells wore one kind of clothes. People outside them wore another. But, it was tricky standing behind a woman with a jagged shard at her throat while she undressed. She giggled as she imagined what a comic picture they must make.

The woman froze, more terrified than ever.

"Sorry," Rhosyn said. "Just thinking of a joke. Keep going. I'm in a hurry."

Rhosyn waited till the dress fell on the floor. "Now, go over to the bed and lie down on your stomach. Good. Now, put your hands behind your back."

This was the dangerous part. Rhosyn had to move the shard away from the woman's throat while she tied her with the ropes she'd made last night after tearing up the rest of her sheets. The woman could move—even fight her—if she tried. But, Rhosyn was sitting on her, and the woman didn't know where she had the shard. She kept still.

Hands tied behind her back, Rhosyn thought. Then, get the gag in her mouth, not that anyone paid attention to screams, here. Now, for the legs.

Rhosyn turned around, keeping her weight on the woman. "I knew a man who went to war," Rhosyn said. _Or so he told me. _"He said a man can bleed to death from a wound in the leg almost before he knows he's cut." If she knew the right place to cut, which she didn't. And if she had the shard in her hand, ready to cut with. Rhosyn began pulling off the woman's shoes, then her socks. She had thick ones made of wool. Good. "You're not going to make me see if that's true, are you? I didn't think so." She tied the woman's feet together and covered her with the blanket. Anyone looking in would see a red haired woman asleep in bed, nothing suspicious.

The woman was plumper than Rhosyn and taller. Carefully, Rhosyn took a braided piece of rope-sheet, using it as a belt to pull up the skirt and keep it from being too obviously ill fitting. The blousy top hung over the rope, hiding it. There was a white apron that went over it. Rhosyn put on the woman's white cap, hiding her red hair. Though the woman's hair was the same, Rumplestiltskin had told her it wasn't a common color. True or not, it was better to hide it.

The woman's feet were much bigger than hers. Rhosyn went back over to the bed. With the shard, she sliced off a few bits from her blanket (from the far side, against the wall where she hoped no one looking in would see it). She stuffed the pieces into the toes of the shoes before putting them on. There, they fit.

"Just a word of advice," she told the woman. "If you get the gag out, nobody pays attention to screams. I'd get a good night's sleep, if I were you." Then, Rhosyn went out into the hallway, locking the door behind her.

Rhosyn had only been down a few of the twisting, turning halls. That way led to the baths. That way led to the room where they force-fed her.

But, this way, so the vision said, led to the kitchens.

She followed it, pushing the cart of empty bowls ahead of her. The room was busy and frantic when she arrived.

So many people in one place. None of her dreams in the world of blue skies had shown her so many people. She fought the urge to panic and run.

_This will work,_ Rhosyn told herself. She'd seen it—and no one would be hurt. She thought.

The shadow was part of what gave her visions. Could she trust what it showed her?

She knew what happened if she stayed.

_No, _Rhosyn thought, feeling the shard hidden in her pocket. _I won't let them take me back there._

She kept her head down and pushed the cart into what she thought was its usual place. There was a stack of towels, neatly stacked and waiting to be used. She also saw a large jar full of grease drippings. Rhosyn knocked down the towels and poured the drippings over them. She grabbed a lamp and threw it onto the pile. They caught beautifully.

"Fire!" she yelled, backing away. "_Fire!_" She ran out into the hallway still screaming the alert. Some people came running. Others tried to get away. A third group didn't know which way they should be going and kept running into the others.

Rhosyn turned into a side room near a door. There were coats there. She grabbed one she had known would be there, along with a cap knit from black wool. Turning, she hurried out into the night, pulling the hat and coat on as she went.

There was more chaos outside (_outside, outside was real. But, the sky, when she looked up, was black with shards of white light too dim to see by. Night, she remembered. When her room grew dark, it meant the world outside was also getting dark. Rumplestiltskin had told her the sky changed color, too, when this happened. So, that much hadn't been a lie_). No one paid attention to Rhosyn.

She walked a few blocks till she thought it was safe. Then, she reached into the coat pocket. There was a purse there, as she'd known (_hoped_) there would be. She saw an animal (_not a sheep, not a cow, a horse_) pulling something that wasn't quite like a wagon. Rhosyn waved to him and he stopped. Speak firmly, she told herself. This was the last part the vision had shown her, but Rumplestiltskin had explained money and hired hacks. The man who drove this would let her had inside the dark box he drove and take her away in return for a metal disk—a coin.

But, the vision hadn't told her _where_ he should take her. This part, she had to do on her own. She tried to remember places Rumplestiltskin had named. "MacAll's Lending Library," she told the driver when he stopped.

He looked her over. "Show me your money."

Rhosyn pulled out a silver colored coin. The man seemed satisfied. "MacAll's will closed this time of night," he said.

"No matter," Rhosyn said. "My sister cleans there. I've a message for her." Sister. Cleaning. Delivering messages. Rhosyn only knew the bits and pieces of this world Rumplestiltskin had told her. She hoped what she said sounded reasonable.

It must have. "Trouble at home?" the driver said, looking more sympathetic. "We'll get you there fast enough. Get in."

So, Rhosyn got into the small box on wheels, closing the door behind her. They drove off , leaving her prison far behind.

X

**Notes: **Since Nurse Fletcher is based on the evil nurse in Once who (I understand) is based on the evil nurse in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, I looked up a quote from her from the movie to use.

Rhosyn's song is Little Talks by Of Monsters and Men. Ever since they used one of the group's songs, Dirty Paws, for the season finale, all their songs have seemed perfect for this story.


	14. Walking in the Dark

It was dark, cold, and getting colder by the time they left Wendy's old house. Despite that, Bae wanted to walk back to Uncle Nathan's. He didn't say it, but she could see the cold air was clearing his head—and helping to clear off all signs of crying from his face. Wendy decided not to protest. It wasn't _that_ late, and it seemed to be doing Bae some good.

"I think—I think Uncle would give you your father's room," Wendy said. "If you wanted. I told the maids to leave it alone till you got back."

"Did it hurt?" Bae asked abruptly. "Leaving everything you knew when your father died?"

Bae had already lost everything he knew, Wendy thought—_really _lost everything. She'd only lost her room and a familiar part of London. She shrugged. "I don't know. I went around in a fog those first days." And Uncle hadn't wanted any scenes from "emotional females," as he'd put it. He'd seen to it Miss Thomas went back to Waels to work for a family in Caerdyf, one with sons young enough not to have a tutor but to gain some benefit from Miss Thomas' inappropriately masculine education.

"Should I wear black for Papa?" Bae asked. He looked worried. Of course, Bae didn't have any money for mourning clothes. Wendy had heard Uncle say he'd pay Mr. Weaver a hundred pounds a year, but she didn't know how much of that he'd received—or how much was left. Even if Uncle had promised to look after him, she knew Bae had lived a long time without enough to even buy bread. At least, she could reassure him on that point.

"No. Men and boys only need a black armband," Wendy said. "A black armband. There are rules about cravats and ties. Those are for older men." Uncle had bought all the servants mourning clothes when Cousin Benjamin died. He still wore his black armband, though the mourning time was past and he'd let the other mourning signs go. There was no black wreath on the door or black borders on his stationery. Of course, most of Uncle's correspondence was with doctors about medicine and theories, so black borders probably weren't appropriate. "I can sew up armbands for you. And put black borders on your handkerchiefs," Wendy said. "And. . . ." she hesitated. "I did get one thing from your father's room, the hair from his brush. I didn't want to risk them cleaning it away. You—you can do what you like with it. But, if you want, I thought I could get it ready for a mourning ring." She didn't know if Uncle would pay for a mourning ring for Bae or not. If not, she _thought_ she could get the money for one. She had a gold chain—her first piece of real jewelry, a gift from her father on her last birthday—she could probably pawn. She wasn't sure how you pawned things, but it couldn't be that hard. People in books did it all the time. The only other thing she could do was sell her hair, and she didn't think hers was long enough to sell, even if Uncle would let her get away with it.

"A mourning ring?"

Really, the things Bae didn't know about! Wendy pulled out her black locket from where it was hidden under her collar and opened it up. "This is a mourning locket," she explained. On one side, there was a picture of a woman facing a cleverly knotted rose of dark brown thread under a thin piece of glass. Except it wasn't thread. "My mother," Wendy said. She flipped the locket over and opened the other side. There was a man in his thirties. Handsome, she thought. And brave. The hair facing it had been worked in a simpler, lace pattern. "My father." She pointed to the lace. "I did that with some of his hair. They don't have mourning jewelry where you come from, do they?" She remembered Mr. Weaver asking her about the watch bob she had made from some of Cousin Benjamin's hair but never had the courage to give to Uncle Nathan. She imagined him looking at her coldly and telling her that sentimentality and meaningless displays of emotion were a pointless waste of time. He'd said as much the one or two times she'd tried to talk to him about her father after he died.

Bae got the guarded look he did whenever she asked questions that came too close to whatever his secrets were. "It's all right," she told him. "You don't have to tell me." She put the locket away. "I've gotten better working with hair," she said. "I could make something fancier than the one I made for Father, if you'd like. Or Miss Grosvenor can. She's _very _good."

Bae made a face at the idea of Miss Grosvenor making a remembrance of his father. "I'd like you to do it, if it's all right."

"Of course. Is there anything special you want it to look like?"

Bae paused. "A spinning wheel," he said. "Do you think you could make a spinning wheel?"

Wendy thought about it a moment. She'd _seen_ bits of hair done up in more difficult pictures, but she didn't think _she_ could do one like that, not even with her smallest crochet hook. Miss Grosvenor probably could, but Wendy tried to imagine getting Miss Grosvenor to make a spinning wheel as a remembrance even if Bae would let her. "I'd have embroider it," Wendy said. Embroidery was probably cheating, Wendy thought, but she couldn't think of any other way. "Is that all right?"

"Embroidered would be fine," Bae said. "Thank you."

The wind blew down the street, and Wendy pulled her coat tighter around her. "Aren't you cold?" she asked Bae. He just shrugged. Wendy sighed. They were passing by some of the shops and stores, now. Most of them had already closed for the evening. The streets were largely deserted, but there was a lone figure huddled up on the steps of the lending library.

Wendy felt a stab of compassion. Whoever it was obviously had no place to go. On a cold night like this, that was a terrible thing indeed. Wendy felt around in her pocket. Bartleby's wasn't too far from here. People went there to get some food before catching the mail coach, so she knew it would still be open. The poor soul could get a meal. Wendy wasn't sure where poor people found rooms at this time of night. But, surely Bae would know?

"Look at that person," she told him. "Whoever it is will freeze out here if we don't do something." Bae nodded but looked slightly bemused. She realized it still struck him as odd that Wendy's first impulse was to help when she saw someone . . . someone like Bae had been when she first met him. It wasn't what he expected from the world.

Wendy went over to the huddled figure. "Excuse me?" She couldn't tell if it was a man or woman—or maybe even a child. Wendy saw a single, loose curl of red hair slipping loose from the person's cap, but that didn't mean anything. Mr. Weaver wasn't the only man in the city with long hair. "Do you need some help?"

The figure looked up. Wendy's first impression was of a pale, sickly face lined with exhaustion. Then, recognition hit her. "_Miss Thomas?_"

X

They were back at Wendy's house. Or at the stables behind it. It was hard to tell by the streetlights, but Bae thought Wendy had grown pale as she talked to Miss Thomas, as she called the small, sickly woman they'd found. She had a pale, unhealthy look that reminded Bae of people in the East Side or of many of the villagers back home in winter, when there wasn't enough sunlight and they were living mostly on porridge.

Miss Thomas' reaction had been . . . odd when Wendy called her by name. It was two reactions at once, he'd thought. She'd been exhausted, with the frightened tenseness Bae had learned to recognize in soldiers returning from the Ogre Wars. His father had had it, before the curse and after they came to this land. There'd been wariness—but no recognition.

Until Wendy finished saying her name.

Bae wasn't sure what had changed, then. But, something had. _Something_ in Miss Thomas' face had sharpened, become more alive. And, whatever it was, Bae was certain it was the reason she'd come with them.

Bae still didn't understand why they'd come back here. _He _thought they should take her to Dr. Hastings. But, Wendy was certain it was a bad idea even before asking Miss Thomas. "There's my uncle," Wendy had finally said under Bae's prodding, as if she was admitting to snakes in the parlor. "Dr. Hastings. I don't know if—"

Miss Thomas had turned pale and looked ready to bolt. "No!" she said. "No doctors!" which only confused Bae, but Wendy looked satisfied.

"Of course not. Don't worry. I know a safe place."

So, they had come back here. Wendy led them to the stables where, as she'd told Bae earlier, neighbors and passing policemen wouldn't see a light. Then, she took them to the small loft room that had belonged to the groom.

Wendy found a candle and lit it from the lantern before putting a storm glass over it. Wendy showed Bae some bedding in a cedar trunk. "Fix it up," she told him. "And see if you can get a fire going in the stove. I'm going back to the house. I think there might be some vegetables left in the root cellar, and I'll see if I can't find anything in the kitchen."

Miss Thomas helped Bae put the bed in order in the near darkness. She seemed shaky, he thought, and wondered how long since she last ate. "Sit down and rest while I get the fire going," he told her. She sat down (gratefully, Bae thought) on the bed.

He could feel her eyes on him as he got the tinder going and began to build up the flames. He glanced over and saw her looking at him in a bemused way. "Why are you hurting?" she asked.

Bae almost dropped his flint. "What?"

"You're hurting. You. . . ." she studied him, as if he were an animal she didn't quite recognize. Then, her expression cleared. "You've lost your shadow!" she exclaimed.

"I—What?"

"Your shadow. There's a darkness. It was part of you. But, you lost it."

_Papa_, Bae thought. She was talking about Papa. It was still cold in the room and Miss Thomas had her coat on and her knitted cap pulled down tight over her head. Even if she hadn't, the candle flame and small glow from the fire were too weak to make out colors. But, Bae remembered the loose lock of red hair he'd seen by the streetlight, and he remembered Papa's story of the seer he'd met in the war. She'd been blind—scarred, Papa had said, as if her eyes had been cut out and placed in her palms. If it was sorcery, it was an evil, cruel kind.

Miss Thomas' eyes were exactly where they should be, but Bae had heard of people with Sight—everyone had. Papa had wondered if the seer he'd met had been born an ordinary—or nearly ordinary—girl till someone used dark magic to strengthen her power. "You—you have the Sight?" he asked.

"You call it that, too. . . ." she said wearily. She looked—and sounded—half-asleep. "I suppose I do. I see things that don't make sense. You need to find your shadow. Even if it hurts putting it back, don't try to wash it away. . . ."

"It—He's gone," Bae said. "Where I can't follow."

She nodded sagely. "In the dark. I see the dark." She shivered. "I don't like it. It reeks of blood."

"He _died_," Bae said. "That's what you're seeing."

Miss Thomas looked startled, the same way she had when Wendy called her by name. "I'm sorry," she said. She seemed to wake up, shaking off whatever spell had gripped her. "Don't—don't listen to what I say. The words—it doesn't mean anything."

Bae turned his attention back to the fire, trying to shut out what she'd said. She wasn't a seer, he told himself. She was just crazy. Angrily, he threw more wood on the fire. "Is that better?" he snapped, before she could say any more about shadows.

"Yes, thank you." She seemed to have shrunk into herself. Bae felt a stab of guilt. Crazy or not, she was Wendy's friend. And he knew what it was like to be cold and starving on the streets. He was searching for something neutral to say—something that had nothing to do with shadows—when Wendy came back up the ladder, a small sack slung over her shoulder. "I found potatoes," she said cheerfully. "And onions. And some oil to cook them in, along with some other things." She opened up her sack. "Other things" included salt, a small bit of flour, and a few cans, including two with milk. "Pity there's no bacon or ham," Wendy said. "But, meat would have spoiled by now. Still, I think I can make us some soup out of this." She began chopping up potatoes and onions. Something that resembled the soup Wendy had made for Papa when they first came to the doctor's house began to take form. Wendy chattered the way she usually did, but Bae thought there was a nervous edge to it. Miss Thomas seemed content to listen with bemused wonder but, even if she'd wanted to speak, Bae doubted she'd have gotten a word in edgewise.

As the room began to warm, Miss Thomas took off her cap. She had very curly hair pulled back in a horribly matted braid. Wendy exclaimed at the sight of it. "Miss Thomas, your beautiful hair! What _happened _ to it?"

Miss Thomas shrugged. "I haven't had much chance to care for it."

Wendy got a steely look of determination in her eyes. "I am bringing a brush tomorrow. A brush and a comb." She eyed the matted curls like a knight about to slay a dragon or die trying.

"You're very kind," Miss Thomas said. She took off her coat. She wore a gray dress underneath with a white pinafore. Wendy started at the sight of it.

"Miss Thomas, you—" Wendy stopped. She gave Bae a look. She was deciding whether or not to tell Bae something, something that frightened her. "Bae, I—" She swallowed. "Could—could you leave us? I'm—I'm going to help Miss Thomas get ready for bed. We—we'd better go after that."

So, she'd decided not to tell him. Or not tell him yet. He looked at Miss Thomas, wondering what the mystery was. The dress was ill fitting, although it was pretty well hidden. Bae had seen women in second (and probably third and fourth) hand clothes they hadn't had time or means to resew. Miss Thomas' dress looked better than most of those.

But, she'd been Wendy's governess. Till she lost her job and wound up on the streets. She wasn't dressed like a streetwalker, so Wendy couldn't be afraid of scandalizing him. Gray was the color for half-mourning, wasn't it? He remembered Wendy saying that, after the anniversary of her father's death, she'd be able to wear gray and some subdued colors. Was Miss Thomas mourning someone, as well? There were few jobs open to women in this land and they were usually paid less than men (who had it hard enough, as Bae well knew). Maybe a kinsman had died and that was why Miss Thomas was on the street. And Wendy thought Bae didn't need to hear it right now after—(he felt something cold clench in his stomach)—after Papa.

"Of course. I'll be downstairs, Wendy. Call me if you need me."

He shoved aside the half-formed impulse he'd had to tell Dr. Hastings about Miss Thomas. She still looked like she needed help. But, if she'd lost someone, too. . . . Bae knew what that did to you. And Wendy usually knew what she was doing. Maybe Miss Thomas just needed time to rest and recover. The way Papa had. Bae was willing to give it to her.

So long as she got better, he thought. If she stayed sick or seemed to get worse, he would have to get help for her whether Wendy wanted him to or not. Dr. Hastings could seem like a hard man, but Bae knew he would help her just as he'd helped Papa.


	15. The Sweet Smell of Home

The second time they left for home they took a hack, stopping about a block before home (_home_, Bae thought, _was it home? _It wasn't as though he had any other). Stopping was Wendy's idea. "Let me go in first," she said. "I can be up in my room before Uncle ever knows I was gone."

"How can he not know you were gone?" Bae asked. It was long after dark by then, and Wendy must have been gone for hours.

"I doubt he's looked," Wendy said. "I told Miss Grosvenor I had the headache and was going to bed early. And, please, Bae, don't tell him about Miss Thomas."

"Wendy—"

"_Please,_ Bae. Uncle always . . . he always made her _uneasy_." Bae had the feeling that "uneasy" was one of those words that was supposed to stand for a whole host of others—and that Bae was supposed to know what other words Wendy was thinking of. He didn't. "The way she is now, it would only make things worse for her to see him. Please, Bae."

Bae remembered the times Papa would give him food, pretending he had already eaten. And Bae pretended to believe him, because Papa needed him to. It had almost killed Papa. He'd been close to death when Dr. Hastings took them in. Maybe, if Papa had been stronger, he might have survived the accident that killed him. Maybe, if Bae had made him eat his share, all this would have been different.

This felt the same. He was making a promise that he knew was a bad idea.

But, he still had to make it.

"I won't tell him," Bae said. "Unless she gets worse. Or if—if something bad happens. If you fall down the ladder and break your leg, I'm not leaving you to die because you're afraid someone will find Miss Thomas."

Wendy glared at him, ready to argue. Then, reluctantly, she nodded. "Fair enough. But, try to help drag me out of the stable first if that happens. Or, at least, don't tell anyone to go upstairs and look around the attic when they offer to get me out. All right?"

"All right," Bae said. They shook on it. Bae still wasn't sure that he hadn't agreed to more than he should.

Wendy snuck around the back. Bae waited about five minutes before going up to the front door. It was already locked for the evening, so he knocked and waited.

The butler, Hughes, usually so good at looking as emotional as an iceberg, was worn out. His face actually lit up when he saw Bae. "Master Bae, you're back!" Then (completely unprecedented) he turned and shouted into the house, "It's Master Bae! He's returned!"

There was a great deal of commotion. The entire household came pouring out. Dr. Hastings, coming from the library, actually started towards the back of the pack but soon came striding to the lead. He was a tall man, but it didn't hurt that they all knew to get out of his way.

Bae thought, for a horrified moment, the doctor was actually going to hug him. But, with a visible effort, he managed to only put his hands on Bae's shoulders. Bae could feel them trembling. "You're back," Dr. Hastings said. There was a tremor in his voice as well. He swallowed and regained some self-control. In his usual, commanding voice, he said, "Blast it, boy, we were worried about you. What did you mean, going off like that? Where have you been?"

"Walking, sir," Bae said. "I didn't—I couldn't—" But there was no way he could explain what it was he couldn't do here when he barely understood it himself. "Please, sir, you said they bad to bury Papa in that town. But—but is there any way I could visit his grave? Please." He wanted to place a wreath where his father was buried. Back home, there were old ballads to be sung by a gravesite. Bae couldn't quite imagine singing those where a stranger from this world could hear them—and probably mock them—but, surely, he could whisper them so just Papa could hear.

The doctor looked taken aback. "I . . . suppose. Yes," he said more firmly. "That would be proper. When spring comes, perhaps. I can arrange some time then and take you."

"Bae, you're back," Wendy said from the top of the stairs. She had her bathrobe pulled over her nightgown. Her hair, which had been properly tied up in a bow ten minutes earlier, hung loose. Bae was impressed.

Dr. Hastings frowned. "You needn't pretend you cared, girl," he snapped. "You went to bed while he was still missing."

Wendy flushed. "No, Uncle. I'm sorry, Uncle."

Dr. Hastings could be a hard man, but Bae told himself he was snapping at Wendy because he'd been worried about Bae. He tried to draw the doctor's attention away from her. "And, Dr. Hastings, if it's all right, I—I wondered if—if I didn't have to sleep in the nursery tonight. If I could use Papa's room." Bae had meant to sound firm and adult. Instead, his voice was small and weak even in his own ears.

The doctor gave him an odd look, as though he were weighing what Bae said for hidden meanings. He nodded slowly. "Yes, that might be . . . appropriate." He gave Wendy a cold glance. "The nursery really isn't a fit place for you. And give Wendy your coat. Miss Grosvenor tells me she needs to practice her sewing. She can make herself useful and put a mourning band on it tomorrow."

"Uncle," Wendy said, her voice tight. "Can we get Bae a mourning ring? I could make hair ornament for it. Miss Grosvenor says I'm quite good, and—"

"No matter how she's flattered you, I'm sure Bae doesn't need any of your amateur efforts. Still," he went on more kindly. "It's a good thought. I should be the one to take you, Bae, but there's been some trouble at the hospital. I'll likely be very busy this week." He turned to his valet. "Smith, you can deal with it, can't you? Take him to Geoffrey's. Or wherever you think best."

Dr. Hasting turned around. "Mrs. Hughes, if you could see that a warm bath is drawn for Bae? He must be half-frozen." Bae, remembering he said he'd been wandering around Londyn for hours, decided not to protest. Besides, he was cold. "Everyone else, we've had quite enough excitement for one day. Go back to whatever you were doing."

Most of the servants drifted off. Wendy, giving him a single, anxious look, beat a hasty retreat while Mrs. Hughes sent one maid up to the nursery after her to fetch Bae's nightclothes and another maid off to draw the bath.

A short time later, Bae was clean and warm as he went into Papa's room.

Papa's room. But, it didn't seem like a place that belonged to Papa. This was white and pale blue. Home had been dark wood and plaster walls. It had been a thatch roof and blankets Papa had woven himself. There had been a rug, once, a beautiful rug Papa had made as part of his bride gifts when he married Mama.

At least, Papa had a grave, Bae told himself. There hadn't been one for Mama. There was a stone in the cemetery back home where they carved the names of those taken by the sea. Mama's name was there, but Bae would never see it again.

Would there be a stone in the cemetery where Papa was buried? Bae didn't know what things like that cost in this world. Had it already been made or—or would they ask Bae what should be put on it? Would it be all right if he asked them to add Mama's name?

Bae opened the wardrobe. Some of Papa's clothes were still hanging there. Bae took a coat off the hanger and held it up to his face. It smelled of Papa, he thought, breathing it in, some of the pain easing inside him.

And yet—and yet—

Bae remembered smells from home. The strong smell of lanolin and of wool hanging to dry, similar but different from the smell of sheep. He remembered the smell of heather in the summer, the smell of peat burning in winter fires, the smell of dyes being made for wool. There were the rare times they could buy honey and the time Papa had found a wild hive in the woods. He remembered the apples, more bitter and tart than the ones he'd tasted from the Londyn market. Bae remembered Morraine coming back from the war. So many of the soldiers coming back had had haunted, cold eyes. But, Morraine's were still warm and kind. Because Papa had saved her. Whatever else Papa had done, he had saved Morraine and so many others. The gods had to remember that and have mercy on him, didn't they?

A thousand memories hit him of things lost and gone. He'd thought he had cried himself out in the darkness in Wendy's old house, but he could feel hot tears streaking down his face again. He curled up on Papa's bed. It smelled only of clean linen, soap, and lavender. The maids changed all the linens, after all, once week.

Bae clutched the coat closer to his chest, breathing it in, wondering how long before its familiar scents faded, and sobbed.


	16. Taking the Long Road

**Note: **I expect to get Jossed on part of this by next week. But, this is the version of how the Emma and Neal mentioned earlier get to this Londyn after being in Neverland. Yes, they are Emma and Neal. _That _Emma and Neal. The alternate universe is meeting up with characters from the standard universe.

Before you ask, I don't know if there are two Enchanted Forests or if the Rumplestiltskin and Baelfire in this universe were somehow split off from the ones we know in a sort of magical, Schrodinger's cat event, where both possibilities magically came into existence.

X

Neal in London—or Londyn, as it was spelled in this world—was like a kid in a candy store. A hyperactive, no self-control, already freaking out from sugar-overload kid in a candy store.

Emma didn't really get it. Neal had lived half a year on the street. He told her about escaping from the workhouse and about mills where children as young as three were kept in shackles and chained to their machines. He'd stolen food out of dustbins (what she called a trashcan) and eaten things moldy enough to kill a horse.

And this was the land of sweet memories? Sometimes, she wondered about him.

But, she had to admit, it was also the home of the Darlings (who, amazingly, had really been called that and hadn't changed their names). They'd taken Neal in and given him a home when he'd had nothing. Emma imagined what it would have been like if she'd ever landed in one of the good foster homes after years of the other kind. She knew what that family would mean to her.

And, if she ever went back to the city where she'd lived with them, even if they weren't there, maybe she'd be as bad as Bae.

When the bobby (yes, they really did call them bobbies) came bearing down on them, Neal was whispered to her to act like an insulted prima donna. Then, he'd gone into a good imitation of a circus ringmaster, stopping the bobby with a cheerful, "You're part of the local constabulary, aren't you? Good! Just the man I wanted to see!"

_Local constabulary? _Who did Neal think he was channeling? Harold Hill from The Music Man?

Emma barely followed what Neal said after that. It had local phrases like "principal boy" (which seemed to be her) and "pantomime" (no, she didn't have a clue what that meant, except that it had something to do with principal boys and involved too much singing to be what she thought of as pantomiming. She wasn't sure she wanted to ask).

Whatever they were talking about, it seemed to explain why she was in tight jeans. The bobby even got them a cab—all right, it was a carriage and they called them hacks, but it was still a cab).

"_What_ did you call me back there?" Emma asked.

"Principal boy? It's a pantomime part."

"Which means what in English exactly?"

"Emma, you're in England. I think you have to call the local language English."

"Not if I don't understand it I don't."

"Fine, fine, I'll explain—" and he had. Pantomime's were humorous plays, usually put on at Christmas (Neal started to go off about one he'd seen with the Darlings. Emma had to drag him back to the point). They usually gave funny versions of fairy tales (Emma hated them already). They also had what was called a "principal boy," a boy's part played by a girl in very tight boy's clothing that made it clear to everyone, even the nearsighted guy in the back row, she was a girl.

So, Neal had more or less been telling the bobby she was an American actress playing a principal boy who (because they were Americans with weird accents and because neither of them were supposed to know the city well) had been dropped off in the middle of the wrong place when they should have been speeding to the theatre for rehearsals.

"Our first rehearsal and I'm in full costume? And he fell for that?"

Neal shrugged, "If he'd asked, I'd tell him how our troupe practiced on the boat over, but we had to start dress rehearsals as soon as we got here."

Emma let it go, although Neal looked like he wanted to tell her all the details of whatever story he'd made up. That was when she'd first seen that kid in a candy store madness, but it wouldn't be the last.

Of course, the real problem—the one that had nearly sent Emma into a panic—was that they were in a world without magic. Even when they found out it wasn't _the _world without magic—the one they were from—and wouldn't have to wait a century and a half to get home, Emma had worried. They could be stuck on this world—with no way to get back to Henry—ever—without magic.

Neal, who seemed unable to panic in this place, just told her to test the magic bag.

The bag was one of several things Neal had grabbed from his father's castle before catching up to Emma and the others in Neverland. You reached into it, you pulled out gold, usually in local coins.

Or, as it turned out in this world, when _Emma_ reached into it. Neal failed (they were in the cab-hack-thing, and Emma was putting together a plan to get out without paying when Neal told her to try). Emma found herself glaring at the gold crowns in her hand (it was more than the ride was worth. The panicked driver had been unable to break it. Emma told him to keep the change just to get rid of him).

Deep down, she still didn't like the idea of magic. The world didn't have to be a good place or make sense—she'd never really expected either of those. But, it was supposed to follow a few rules. If life made a habit of tripping you while you weren't looking and slamming your face into the ground, the ground was at least supposed to stay where it belonged and not transform into clouds or thorns or cotton candy while you were on your way down. It wasn't a big certainty, but it was one of the few Emma thought she had a right to. Magic took it away.

That _she_ was the one, with her (ugh) "true-love" magic, making it go didn't help.

And the acorn. She was the one who got to guard the acorn.

The acorn had been something Gold had brought with him. Or had pulled out of thin air when he needed it.

That was when everything had gotten crazy in Neverland. Neal had just arrived (and almost had a fireball thrown at him by Gold before Gold realized he was him [to be fair, that wasn't long after Hook had been killed by a thing that looked like a woman he had called "Milah" before she gutted him]), Regina and Emma's parents were getting ready to grab Henry while Emma and Gold drew off the rest of Pan's forces, and Neal arrived about thirty seconds before Pan's shadow broke through the wall of fire Gold had put between them and it.

Gold, once he was convinced Neal was Neal (fifteen seconds), had cut his hand and shoved the acorn into the blood (five seconds). "It will make a portal to get you out," he'd told him, speaking quickly. "It follows the blood. It can draw you to Henry—" And then the shadow broke through, and there wasn't time for more explanations.

They'd survived. Emma hadn't been expecting to, there at the end. She realized, Gold was even more surprised to survive than she was.

And, then, the world was falling apart. Neal and Emma were on one side of the divide and everyone else was on the other.

Emma remembered the desperate look on Gold's face as he looked at Neal.

"Get out!" Neal had yelled. "Save Henry and get out!"

Emma knew Gold by then—knew him better than Neal did. If there'd been any way he could have reached them, he would have. Even though there wasn't, she wasn't sure he'd wouldn't try, even if it killed him. But, she saw him look at Henry as Neal yelled at him, as if just remembering the boy was there. Gold grabbed him and done something. A light enveloped them, along with her parents and Regina.

Then, before they vanished, Gold turned back to them and yelled, "The portal! You still have the portal! Use—" before vanishing.

Neal pulled it out as the ground crumbled beneath them, opening it just in time.

But, they'd wound up in the wrong world.

Followed by another wrong world.

And a third one.

And, now, this place.

"I've cracked it," Neal had said (because he couldn't help thinking he was funny [sometimes, Emma even agreed]) before landing them here. He'd spent time by then talking to some of the more magical beings they'd run into (and fought, more often than not). He thought they had the acorn figured out. The Brujablanca (sort of a cross between a witch, a vampire, and a chupacabra) had given them a few pointers after Emma threatened to cut her face off (which, given what the lady had been trying to do to Emma before Emma took her stone knife away and pointed it at her, she refused to feel guilty about). Mr. A, one of the other boarders at Mrs. Tumnal's (sort of a lion-like guy who said his kind were called Tharrls [he didn't expect them to have met one before]).

Emma had already seen the problem and had called him on it. The first time, OK, it was an emergency with the world falling apart around them. It made sense that the portal had messed up. Just coming through alive counted as doing it right.

But, the second time, she began to catch onto the problem. By the third time, she was sure what it was.

"You don't want to go back," she told Neal.

He'd been honestly surprised. "What do you mean? Of course, I do!"

"You want to get back to Henry. And, maybe you want to get back to New York and being Neal Cassady. You don't want to go back to Storybrooke and magic. And we both know you don't want to go back to any place where you're Rumplestiltskin's son."

It had taken him awhile to admit it, but he'd finally come clean.

No, he wasn't ready to deal with his dad. Not yet.

"I don't _care_ if you're ready or not," Emma said. "We need to get back—_I _need to get back. So, stop messing it up. Stop thinking about how you don't want to see Gold every time we open that door, so it can happen, all right?"

He'd agreed. He'd even _practiced._

Family. Blood. His father. He told her he thought about when he was a little boy and things with his dad . . . hadn't been that bad. He'd tried to picture it as clearly as he could in his mind, digging up every scrap of good feeling he had for his father.

Looks like it wasn't enough.

Maybe, next time, she should tell him to concentrate on finding a world with interdimensional phone service. At least, that way, she could call home and let them know they were alive.

And, instead of being upset at how colossally he'd messed up—_again—_Neal was acting like it was his birthday party.

The only bright spot was that 19th century Londyn still had pretty loose laws about firearms. If Emma hadn't been able to go to the shooting club and blast away, she would have gone crazy (there had been some objections when she joined, but the club rules didn't actually _say_ a woman couldn't be a member, they just hadn't had one apply before. When there was some argument, Emma grabbed her gun and said anyone who could outshoot her could blackball her, the rest had to shut up. So far, they'd all had to shut up).

Of course, she was a crazy, eccentric American (or Americhan, although Emma didn't know why they spelled it that way when they still said it Ameri_can_). That meant she could get away with stuff that would kill an English—or Anglish—woman.

It didn't hurt that word had gotten out she used to be a bounty hunter (maybe because she'd mentioned it. Repeatedly). She didn't have to tell anyone it wasn't in the wild west.

Meanwhile, she wore long dresses. Neal had insisted she get ones that were expensive and fashionable—showing you had money wasn't the same as being respectable, but it was pretty close. And being respectable in Londyn was like being tough in New York and Boston, it let you walk down the street without too many people getting in your way. Even if you could push them away, who needed the extra hassle? And, whatever rose-colored glasses Neal was looking at this world through, even he saw that.

That was why they introduced themselves and Mr. and Mrs. Swan. It was a lot easier—and more respectable—than explaining anything close to the truth. The went with Swan because, Neal said, Cassady was an Irish (or Eirish) name, and that was nearly as bad as not being respectable in this town.

Emma had been all right with that. And she was trying to be all right with the dresses. It wasn't so bad—so long as the dressmaker understood that "fashionable" didn't mean hoops, bustles, or anything with a corset. Or anything that was hard to walk or fight in. The dressmaker had nearly had a heart attack, but she'd agreed in the end. Mostly. Emma wasn't sure she wanted to have to fight for her life in these skirts—but they were great for hiding some of the guns she'd bought, along with the knives. She was still working on how to hide her sword. A crossbow would be nice, too, but she'd need a hoop skirt for that—and that _wasn't_ happening.

During all this, Emma and Neal were staying in a hotel, an expensive one where the staff would do crazy things like boil water till any germs (which they'd never heard of) were killed, if you paid them extra (and not just pretend to, like the cheaper hotels). But, Neal had wanted to rent a house. Emma hadn't understood that obsession till he dragged her out to see the one he'd chosen.

"It's right where the Darlings used to live," he told her. "It even looks the same."

"Are there Darlings in this world?" Emma asked, remembering a few science fiction stories from her childhood (she'd dated a guy once who owned copies of every Star Trek episode ever made. He hadn't noticed till three hours into a marathon viewing of all the even numbered Trek movies and two hours after she left that she'd dumped him when Chekov was getting slugs stuck in his ears).

"I checked," Neal admitted. "But the family who owned this place was named Beaton, although it's a Hastings who signed off on it. I guess he's there business contact or something."

"Neal. . . ."

"C'mon, Miss Money-Bags, it's not like we can't afford it. Anyway, it's just a house. What could go wrong with a house?"

Emma saw that little kid glow in his eyes again. Even though she was sure there were a thousand ways "just a house" could go wrong—weren't there something like a thousand horror movies based on that idea?—telling him no would have been like kicking a puppy.

Besides, even though it was something she'd never had, she understood why it mattered. For Neal, this was home.

Maybe, if they stayed here and he got this out of his system, he'd finally be able to get _her_ home.


End file.
